


Object Lessons

by strangeallure



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication, Established Relationship, F/M, Intimacy, Light Bondage, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, ash tyler is the perfect boyfriend, character study through sex, except for that one time, graphic descriptions of trail mix, trust that there are issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Set several months after the Control storyline has been resolved - without sending Discovery into the future. Ash is back to being a regular crew member.“So how can that be? Such similar situations: alone in quarters that aren’t mine, your hands on my neck, no one there to intervene, save me if something goes wrong.” She turns towards him. “And what do I feel? Fear, anxiety?” She shakes her head. “No. I feel excitement. Arousal. There’s nothing else, no sense of danger or dread. I just want you.” Looking down into her lap, she adds, “I always want you,” like an afterthought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Frangipani, for in-depth discussions about occasionally messy relationship trajectories and spot-on beta suggestions. You made this fic a lot longer, meatier and emotionally resonant and caused me a ton of extra work in the process.
> 
> ~~This fic is finished, and I intend to post all parts before the end of July.~~ I added quite a few scenes and substantially expanded the second half of the fic in edits/rewrites, so I wasn't able to keep to my intended schedule.
> 
> Enjoy!

Michael’s on top of him, not a lot of weight but a delicious amount of pressure where she grinds down. Even through layers of fabric, it feels incredible, intense.

They’ve been doing this for a few months now, and sometimes, it still hits Ash how lucky he is to be with her like this, after all that’s happened. After he lied to her about losing time, after he tried to kill her when Voq had taken over his body, after his time on Qo'noS and with Section 31.

It’s amazing to think they were able to overcome all that.

Every moment alone together, every touch, every kiss, used to feel like a privilege when he had first returned from Qo'noS, but now Michael visits his quarters regularly, they sit next to each other at social functions, and even when the mess hall isn’t completely empty, she occasionally reaches out to hold his hand.

There are times when he wants more, when he wants everything: wants to put his arm around her during Tilly’s movie night, wants her to stay over so he can wake up beside her, wants to spend whole days with her, put in for shore leave and explore a place together for a week or two.

But right now, there’s only this, his mind narrowed down to the experience of her, enjoying, savoring, as both of them sink deep and deeper into pleasure. Every breath, every sound, every movement from Michael encouragement to keep going, give her more.

He lets his hands travel across her ass and between her legs, rubbing at the inside of her thighs through her uniform slacks, index fingers sliding against the curve of her sex, feeling the humid heat gathered there. She gasps into his mouth, a soft, low sound, the roll of her hips punctuated by small contractions he’s learned to read as signs of an impending orgasm.

Ash pushes his hips up, enjoying the damp chafe of his own underwear and slacks against the hardness of his cock, everything too tight, everything too much. Michael’s chest moves against his in a sinuous pattern – _slide and retreat, slide and retreat_ – generating the friction she wants, breath hitching every time she gets it.

His one hand drifts until his fingers skim beneath the hem of her shirt, waist warm under his palm as his hand travels further, curling around her ribcage, each finger fitting perfectly inside the spaces between her bones. His thumb brushes along the swell of her breast and Michael stiffens.

 _Too far._ Ash pulls his hand out from under the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, tilting her chin up, her eyes a little too wide when they find his.

“My mistake.” He cups her cheek, makes his expression reassuring as he presses a soft kiss to her lips. “Don’t worry about.”

“No,” she insists with a subtle shake of her head, “I shouldn’t-“

He takes her words away with a deeper kiss, his tongue licking into her mouth, tasting, twisting, until she groans, digs her fingers into his shoulders through his shirt. His hand between her legs resumes its rhythm, and he thrusts his hips up, reminding her how hard he is, how hard she makes him.

“This is good,” he murmurs, nuzzling her nose, “ _so good_.”

His hand on her cheek travels halfway down, and he catches her breast in his palm, massaging it through her shirt and bra, his thumb strumming across the hard nub of her nipple until she arches into him, mutters approval against his jaw.

That he gets to have this, that Michael lets him see her this way, open and needy, that she trusts him to give her pleasure, make her come, it’s special, a gift he maybe doesn’t deserve but hopes to prove worthy of receiving.

Between her thighs, his hand slides deeper and grabs hold of her pussy, throbbing hot through the fabric, his middle finger curling where her clit is, pressing in, the heel of his hand pushing against her opening, moving in insistent circles.

When her mouth drags lower, teeth scraping against the tendons in his neck, he knows she’s about to climax. A faint thrill runs through him that he’s able to read her like this, that he’s so sure. Ash speeds up the movements of his hands and his hips, giving her all the friction he can, increasing the amount of stimulation, not easing up.

Her mouth opens wet and wide around his throat, cut-off moans vibrating against his pulse as she comes, her hips moving in a quick, syncopated rhythm. He imagines feeling a hot wet surge against his palm, and he bucks up into her, fast and shameless, chasing the tendrils of his own orgasm until he comes warm and sticky inside his underwear.

He’s still panting, thoughts incoherent as he comes down, when Michael shifts and moves off of him, burrowing into his side, her arm slung around his waist. He enfolds her in an embrace and kisses her temple.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against his ribs.

“Don’t be,” he says, stroking his thumb along her hairline.

“I want to. You know that, right?” She speaks the words into his chest, her hand smoothing out the fabric of his shirt, like she needs to keep her fingers moving, needs an outlet for her nervous energy.

“I know:” He kisses her hair. “Don’t worry, we’ve got time.”

She looks up at him. “I want to touch you.” She swallows and her hand grasps at his waist. “Everywhere. And I want you to touch me, too.” Her eyes cut away. “But then I freeze up.” The self-reproach in her voice is what gets to him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

They’ve had this conversation before, and it saddens him that she still blames herself for what was entirely his fault, for what happened when he was so deep in denial that he wound up hurting her, no matter the extenuating circumstances.

The only reason they’re here now is her forgiveness and strength, her willingness to give him another chance after what should probably have torn them apart for good. He’s thankful for that, but more importantly, he’s genuinely happy with what they have. There’s no rush, and he hates to see her put pressure on herself.

Tipping her chin up with two fingers, he makes her meet his gaze. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you.” He kisses the tip of her nose, and it makes her scrunch up her face and smile like it always does. Fleetingly, he wonders if she’s ticklish there or if it’s just that she finds it such a strange thing to do.

He maintains eye contact as he tightens his grip around her back. A thought forms in his mind. “Maybe it’s just that you want too much at once.”

“What do you mean?” She seems puzzled.

“Maybe we should break this down into smaller, more manageable steps,” he tries to explain.

Her eyebrows rise, somewhere between skeptical and intrigued.

“Next time you come over,” he says, trying to suffuse his voice with confidence, “you could sit down in that chair.” He points to the one close to the foot of his bed, where he usually throws his clothes before he goes to sleep. “And I could sit down on the bed. And then,” there’s a small, excited clench in his belly, “you can tell me to take my clothes off.” She purses her lips. “Piece by piece. As many or as few as you like.”

Her face gives nothing away as she thinks it over, and it makes his skin prickle. It’s an unconventional proposition to begin with, and definitely unexplored territory for them.

Michael blinks a few times. “And then?”

He didn’t think that far ahead, not really, but all of a sudden the answer is obvious. “Nothing.” He shrugs. “At least not the first time. We’ll just talk.” He grins at her, lopsided and a little charming, he hopes. “You’ll get to keep all your clothes on.”

She nods slowly. “Divorce the nudity from the sex.”

Of course she understands. “Yeah.”

“Like exposure therapy?”

He sputters, laughing almost in spite of himself. “Not the term I would have used. Habituation, maybe, or object lessons, but,” he agrees grudgingly, “I guess that works, too.”

Her mouth curls in an oddly sweet smile. “Object lessons. I like that.” She moves in for a quick kiss, dry but tender. “I think I’d like that a lot.”

\--

He has to cancel their lunch date the next day because a meeting runs over, and it throws a wrench in his plans.

They don’t technically keep their relationship a secret, but they’re not in the habit of discussing it with friends and colleagues around either. So when he runs into Michael and Tilly in the mess hall that evening, Ash keeps the conversation light, non-committal, and once Tilly mentions a tennis match against Detmer and Owosekun they have set up for later, his chances to discreetly insinuate himself in their plans vanish.

Gen Rhys walks by moments later, inviting them to try out some new three-dimensional card game. Ash has been making forays into establishing a social life again, so he allows himself to believe that his inclusion in the invitation is more than a courtesy and accepts, glad when Rhys claps him on the shoulder in confirmation. “Great. See you later.”

The game turns out to be a fun challenge, and Ash stays later than he had planned, absently thinking that Michael's presence would make the evening even better.

She’s nowhere to be found when he has breakfast the next day, and since Ash is no longer on bridge duty, he can’t ask her out casually when they get off shift or are on their way to a meeting. At least he’s already gotten in the habit of messaging her through their work stations. Usually, it's a stray observation or a work-related question, sometimes genuine, sometimes more of a pretext to get in touch with her; so it won’t look too eager when he drops her a line. Asking her if she’s planning to attend Detmer’s flight demo that night should be innocuous enough, and her swift confirmation seems like a good sign.

They sit next to each other during the lecture part of the demo, and once the lights go down, Michael takes his hand, like she senses the strain gathering in his muscles and wants to reassure him. Ash has never had a problem with crowds, but the mass of shadowy bodies surrounding them reminds him that some things about him might never go back to the way they were.

The demo part of the evening is exhilarating, Discovery’s state-of-the-art holodeck bringing truly breathtaking footage from Detmer’s own flights to life, realistic to a point where one ensign throws up in a bucket Detmer was prescient enough to provide.

They wind up in different hands-on groups, and while Ash would rather do this with Michael, he’s glad to be paired up with a familiar face. Iguchi is part of his work group, and her offbeat sense of humor is much appreciated, especially when their current project requires yet another round of overtime.

Right after Michael finishes her flight sim, Ash catches a glimpse of her. He’s still giddy from his own turn, and she appears to be just as excited, standing taller yet more relaxed than she usually does, her face glowing, some perspiration gleaming on her forehead. When her eyes find him, she smiles brightly, and he feels his own smile deepen.

Once the event is over, Ash means to go find Michael, but when he overhears Zamir asking Detmer about this highly experimental upgrade they’re developing on Tellar Prime, he simply has to stop and listen in for a moment. It’s fascinating stuff. He’s slow to contribute at first, but once Detmer asks follow-up questions to his mention of piloting a long-range exploratory shuttle, it becomes a lively discussion, and soon they’re deep into shop talk.

The sound of someone clearing their throat next to him reminds Ash that it must have been a while, and for a split-second he worries that Michael has left without him. Then he realizes that she’s the person trying to get his attention. “A few of us are going to the rec room on deck 14.” She nods towards a gaggle of people at the door. “In case you’d like to join in later.”

He appreciates the offer, is happy she didn’t leave without saying goodbye when he got sidetracked by the latest advances in neuro-interfaced navigation. Detmer reacts with enthusiasm, too. “Great idea, I’m sure I can explain this better with some Andorian ale in me and a few chess pieces as props.”

It’s a fun evening with enough familiar faces that Ash isn’t too on edge about the few crew members he hasn’t really interacted with before. He used to be better at this, comfortable in meeting new people, making friends, but he doubts he’ll ever fully get the carefree attitude back that used to serve him so well. Now there are things people have every right to judge him for, and there’s always uncertainty lurking: what do they know about him already, what will happen if they find out? The crew has been accepting, welcoming to a point he would never have predicted, and he’s thankful for it, but sometimes he still misses who he used to be. A regular guy without nightmares or dark secrets, no more damaged than the average person.

Having Michael there helps. They’re sitting next to each other, and even when they’re not part of the same conversation, the warmth of her body close to his makes him feel good, safe, and when she looks at him every now and then, just for a moment, just to check in, it instantly drains whatever tension has been building in his shoulders.

Eventually, Ash gets up to replicate another round of ale and some snacks, and Michael joins him.

“I’m glad you invited me,” she says as they walk, “it would have been a shame to have missed this.”

“Right?” Ash tells the replicator their order. “I knew Detmer was a great pilot, but I didn’t expect the demo sim to be on this level. It’s incredible.” He looks over at her and is reminded of the exhilaration and sheer joy on her face right after her flight. An idea pops up in his head. “In fact, I think I have an in with Iguchi, so I might be able to get us some additional time in the simulation tomorrow.” He grins at her. “Since you obviously have a penchant for aeronautical derring-do.”

To his surprise, Michael shakes her head. “Maybe some other time.”

It’s no big deal. He can’t expect her to always be available on short notice. “I think I’d prefer a quiet night in tomorrow,” she adds, and while that does sting, Ash knows rationally that she has every right to some time alone.

“Of course.” He focuses his attention on the ale, moving to grab the pitcher, but Michael’s hand closes around his before he does. When he looks up, he finds her expression somewhere between coy and sly. “How about nineteen-hundred hours in your quarters?”

_Oh._

Ash feels a new, broader grin spread across his face, and he briefly squeezes her hand before passing along the snack tray.

“Sounds perfect,” he says as he reaches for the ale.


	2. Chapter 2

“Take off your shirt.”

Michael calling the shots is not exactly new, but outright orders from her are. The confidence in her voice excites him, and Ash hurries to comply, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it onto the jacket already discarded on the floor.

His heart beats loud in his chest, the mundane act of undressing made to feel momentous by their history.

On the ISS Shenzhou, taking off their clothes had been a way to shed the callousness of their Terran identities, share the vulnerability of their own selves underneath. Finding comfort in each other’s skin, affirmation of their own humanity. Their intimacy the only thing that had felt right in a universe where everything else had been twisted.

Looking back, Ash can’t help seeing the signs of himself fraying, how desperate he had been, clinging to her light to help him ward off the darkness within.

It still feels unreal sometimes that they were able to come back from what happened, that Michael trusts him enough to try and re-establish the intimacy that developed so easily between them the first time around.

He raises his head, seeking out the reassurance of her gaze. She’s sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed, arms on the armrests, legs splayed in a show of relaxed confidence that is somewhat undercut by the rigidity in her spine.

“I didn’t know you wore undershirts,” she says in a tone he’s not sure how to read.

“I usually don’t,” he replies, pushing his hair back in a nervous gesture. “I just thought that it might be good to have an additional layer, an additional step.”

She smiles at him. “That’s very nice. Considerate.”

He enjoys the small praise, somehow amplified by the space between them.

“Take it off.” Her voice is level, but the words still make something stir in his gut.

“Yeah,” he says and it comes out husky. His undershirt hits the floor and Ash stretches out on the bed, tamping down on a curious sense of something like shyness, perhaps, at being on display like this.

Her gaze runs across his torso, eyes starting and stopping as she leans closer, her forearms coming to rest on her thighs.

“I don’t remember those scars,” she says.

He tries for a nonchalant smile. “They’re from my stint as torchbearer.”

She doesn’t follow his lead, doesn’t smile. “What did they do to you?” Her voice is filled with concern. They’ve talked about their time apart, about his time on Qo'noS, and up until now, Ash thought it had been enough, had thought it best not to dwell on the past, but suddenly, those conversations seem superficial, little more than skin-deep.

“Nothing too bad, really,” he flicks his hand across his chest, like he could brush off the perfectly round scar there. “Mostly ceremonial stuff. Turns out having human skin isn’t ideal when the political process involves pain sticks and bat’leths.”

Her expression is earnest, her sympathy palpable, and his skin starts itching everywhere, like it’s too tight or maybe too loose, not fitting quite right. He didn’t mean to upset her, but he clearly has. He should have anticipated this. Of course she’d notice the scars. Of course they’d remind her of what’s wrong with him, what pushed them apart. Just by sitting here like this, he’s forcing a conversation on her.

“It’s okay,” he starts, intending to dismiss the subject, maybe put his shirt back on and cut the evening short. The openness in her face makes him reconsider. She doesn’t look uncomfortable for herself, but curious, like she wants to listen, to learn what happened. He probably owes her the truth.

So he explains how these scars are no big deal to him. They were inflicted as a way to test his mettle, his worthiness. He always understood that. Compared to the injuries from before, mutilations without proof on his body, they seem insignificant. The scars she can see tell the story of how he tried to do a good thing. They’re part of who he is now, and the pain, inconsequential even when he sustained it, has long since faded.

Michael nods quietly, an invitation to keep talking.

“At the time, I thought going to Qo'noS would be the right thing to do. And I think – I have to believe – that for a while, I helped, that I made a difference.” An acrid taste expands in his throat. “That has to count for something.”

“Of course,” she says, and he’s not sure if she agrees or merely understands what he’s trying to say. Her lips press together, and she holds his gaze with big, shining eyes. “So much could have gone wrong, negotiating with Klingons after all that’s happened during the war. And now we’re in the process of ratifying a peace treaty.” She shakes her head. “I know many good people helped to make that happen, but you played a large part in it, Ash.” Her words soothe him, make it easier to breathe.

Some wetness seems to be caught in her lashes, but the room is too dim and she’s too far away to be sure. “I wish you could have stayed with me back then, but I understand why you left.” She looks down into her lap where her thumb keeps smoothing across the nails of her other hand. He feels the urge to get up and reach out, but makes himself lie still. “It was the right thing to do.” Her chin jerks up and she looks straight at him with so much genuine warmth he scarcely knows what to do with it. “I admire that about you. That you’re always trying to do the right thing.”

“Thank you,” he says, the words rising from a tight place inside his chest.

Maybe they were too focused on making a fresh start when they broached the topic before, or maybe they were too afraid of old wounds breaking open, of raw nerves and scar tissue.

Pulling up her chair, Michael comes to sit right beside him. She takes his hand and the warm press of her fingers remains a calming presence as they talk until late.

\--

“We’re doing the first-phase wrap-up tomorrow morning,” Michael says before another forkful of fruit salad disappears into her mouth.

It’s good news. Her current project has been keeping her busy until late, so they haven’t really seen each other outside of a few lunch dates this week, and Ash misses being with her in the privacy of his quarters. Misses sitting on the couch with his arm around her, stroking her shoulder absentmindedly as they talk. Misses kissing her, too, tracing the lines of her face when she kisses him back, presses her body against his, when she climbs into his lap.

“Can you pencil me in tomorrow night?” she asks, and the unfamiliar expression makes him chuckle. He’s not sure if it’s out of one of the old Earth novels she loved to read as a teenager or a direct translation of a Vulcan phrase.

“I’m not one-hundred percent sure what that means,” he replies, “but I absolutely can.”

She puts her fork down. “Good,” she says and places her hand on top of his, squeezing. It’s a simple gesture, but the fact that the space around them is bustling with people makes it feel weightier, makes his skin heat up where she touches him, the hairs on his arms standing on end. “I’ve been looking forward to another lesson.”

\--

The next evening, they’re together on the couch, carrying on a conversation that fades into the background every time she nuzzles at his jaw or he touches his forehead to hers, sharing quick pecks here and slow kiss there until her arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders, her legs draped across his lap.

They’ve given up on coherent sentences by the time her body moves away without breaking the kiss. Ash pushes back deeper into his seat, anticipating Michael’s weight on top of him, strong thighs bracketing his hips, but instead she gets up, taking his hand to pull him off of the couch.

“How about another lesson?” she whispers, a smile playing around her lips as she leads him towards the bed.

As soon as they’re both situated - Ash on the mattress, Michael in the chair by the foot of the bed - she motions for him to take his top off.

“No undershirt I see,” she comments when he follows the unspoken order.

“No,” he grins and winks at her, “no more training wheels.”

Surprise crosses her face, quickly tempered by mischief. “Does that mean you’re going to take your pants off, too?”

“How about socks first?” He pulls one from his foot, trying to cover his own surprise. They agreed on these lessons to try a gradual approach, take things slow, and it makes taking off his pants seem like a big deal.

“You think I need to get used to your naked feet?” She raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“Not really.” He pulls the second sock off and wiggles his toes. “But I do think I’ll look better without socks. Once I do lose my pants, I mean.”

“I thought this was just a habituation exercise?” The feigned puzzlement in her voice is strangely attractive.

He puts his hand over his heart. “I have a vested interest in you liking what you see.” His tone is playful, but it’s true nevertheless.

She regards him with a small smile and her voice is softer when she says, “There’s no need to worry about that.”

Even without shirt and socks, Ash feels an easy warmth spread through his body. “Glad to hear it.”

In a deliberate show of nonchalance, he stretches out on the bed and laces his fingers behind his head, crossing his legs at his ankles.

“You realize your pants are still on,” Michael says dryly.

“I thought we could talk a little first.” He gives her a sunny smile, but she only tilts her head in response.

Michael’s something of an overachiever, he’s always known that. And yes, part of him would love to take off his pants and have her look at him in just his underwear, see how far they can go tonight, but he doubts that would be helpful for the long term.

Things between them got intense so quickly when they first met, he doesn’t want them to be swept away in a blur of heightened emotions again because they’re speed-running through the steps. He’d rather take it slow and build something real.

“So, did Linus invite you to his recital?” He asks in a blatant attempt to start an innocuous conversation.

Michael snorts a laugh. “Is that your idea of pillow talk?”

He grins. “Maybe.”

She acquiesces, and after they’ve exchanged ever-escalating worst-case scenarios for Linus’s musical capabilities, their conversation flows almost as easily as it usually does. Occasionally, though, Ash catches Michael’s eyes wandering, examining his body. He doesn’t comment on it.

\--

Over the next week, they don’t have much time to themselves; mismatched shifts, meetings running late and social engagements like Linus’s recital and Tilly’s movie night all getting in the way.

By the time he finally gets some time alone with Michael, he’s hungry for her like he hasn’t been in a while. The way she’s on him the second they’re through the door of his quarters, pushing him straight towards the bed amid voracious kisses, tells him the feeling is mutual.

Usually, Michael’s on top when they do this, in the driver’s seat, setting the rhythm. This time, though, she signals for him to turn them around, and soon he looks down on her flushed face and spit-slicked lips as she spreads her legs to let him get closer, her thighs around his hips, her feet hooking into his calves.

It’s like she’s offering him more control over how he explores her body, letting him set a pace with his thrusts and the weight of his body.

Michael shifts beneath him, legs opening wider, seeking a better angle, more stimulation through their clothes. “I need you closer,” she says hoarsely, and it sends a jolt of energy straight to his cock.

Ash fumbles blindly for a pillow, pulling away just enough to position it under her. When he lowers himself back down, both hands grabbing her ass to pull her up against his groin, she moans, deep and dirty, baring her teeth.

“Better?” he asks with more cockiness than he thought he had left.

Taking his head in both hands, she drags him into a fierce kiss, her hips grinding in relentless pursuit of friction, groaning and gasping into his mouth as he holds on to her waist with one hand, caressing her breast with the other, her nipple a hard little nub under the fabric.

They haven’t been at it long, but he’s already close, and he hopes she’s close, too. He won’t be able to drag it out much longer, but he wants to give her something extra, added stimulus to push her over the edge, so he raises himself up on one arm. He has good upper body strength; he can do this.

Letting go of her breast earns him a frustrated grunt, but his hand snaking down to her pussy turns the sound into a moan of approval. He angles his pelvis so the bulge of his cock rubs right at her entrance while his fingers find a dirty, graceless rhythm right where her clit is, Michael’s sounds of pleasure urging him on. Sweat springs up on his face, his neck, at the small of his back, and the telltale quiver of too much continuous strain starts to build in his muscles.

Finally, Michael arches with a guttural moan, her arms and legs snapping shut around him, a delightful trap. Her hips pushing up into the pressure of his fingers, wringing all the gratification from his touch she can take. When her keening dies down, Ash slides his hand out from under himself to support his weight on both forearms and starts rutting against her in quick, shallow thrusts. A drop of his sweat falls onto Michael’s cheek, her face lovely and slack, post-orgasmic.

 _I did that_ , he thinks and buries his face in her neck, hips snapping forward, pushing into the heat at the juncture of her thighs until he comes, groaning his own orgasm into the salty warmth of her throat.

After a few blissed-out moments, he rolls off of her, and they find a more comfortable position, his head on her chest and her arm around him. They lie there wordlessly, his hands playing with her left hand while her right keeps running through his hair, thumb outlining the shape of his ear.

“I was really looking forward to finally getting to see your underwear,” she says, making him chuckle.

He points a lazy finger at his dresser. “First drawer from the top. Knock yourself out.”

Ash feels her laugh beneath him. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Next time,” he says. Even through the pleasant haze, saying those words sends a small spike of anticipation through his system. He’s still nervous about overstepping when he takes any kind of future with her for granted, even ridiculous little things like this, but then again, she’s the one who brought it up. She’s the one whose mind wandered to him in his underwear while they’re still loose and sated, enjoying the afterglow.

“Yeah,” she agrees, her hand sliding down the side of his face to stroke across his neck, “next time.”

\--

He’s assigned to an away team the following day, a nine-day exploration of a diverse biological system inside the caves on Bolac Minor with Stamets, Jalloh and Naqvi. Starfleet’s surveyors detected precious metals and mineral deposits on the planet which are currently in short supply within Federation territory but needed in the ongoing restoration efforts. Their team’s job is to gather data and determine whether mining operations would negatively impact the existing flora and fauna.

Three days in, unexpected rainfall cuts off the route Jalloh had originally mapped out, slowing down their progress considerably. As team leader, Stamets decides to follow an alternate passage instead of backtracking. With the next data push, they transmit a message to Discovery, letting them know they’ll be adding a few days to their mission.

Around the artificial fire that night, they wind up sharing stories about previous missions beset by adverse weather conditions, and in the blue glow of the light, it feels like they’re telling ghost stories. Jalloh turns out to be especially adept at building tension, making every one of them jump at least once. Fortunately, she’s just as good at resolving everything with a laugh.

Once Ash has zipped up his tent for the night, his thoughts turn to Michael, how this extension means even more time without her. He’s gotten so used to her being close by, and the last few days have driven home how much he relies on that knowledge. How, although he enjoys the work and gets along with his colleagues, he can’t fully relax and just be when she’s not around somewhere. How much her presence, even when they don’t see each other every single day, puts his mind at ease. The realization only underscores how careful he has to be with what they have, how precious it is. He can’t not have her in his life.

He can’t fuck this up.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes twelve days for the away-team to return to Discovery, and when they do, Ash is both exhilarated and exhausted. The last day was a long one, their final ascend delayed by a fraying rope, but his mind still fizzes with a feeling of accomplishment, with all the new things he’s seen and learned. The continuous exertion, unfamiliar barometric pressure and prolonged lack of sunlight, however, have all taken their toll on his physical state. It’s a weird space to be in, and he’s glad Stamets scheduled the first debrief after lunch the next day to give them some time to decompress. If they’d arrived on schedule, he could have checked in with Michael, but it’ll be too late for that by the time he’s done with his mandatory post-mission check-up.

He’s shaking out his shoulders as he leaves sickbay when a figure on the other side of the corridor draws his attention. Michael. 

At her sight, his whole body floods with warmth, and all he wants to do is scoop her up in his arms. A door hisses a few paces away, a reminder of the public setting, and he suppresses the impulse.

Instead he says, “Hi,” with a goofy wave.

“Ash.” Damn, he missed her voice, missed her smile, too, bright yet almost shy. “I set the system to ping me once you came in for your health eval.” It’s endearing how she feels the need to explain her presence, not meeting his eye as she does, and it makes not hugging her a real struggle.

With sudden determination, she wraps her hand around his fingers and pulls him in the opposite direction of his quarters. He doesn’t quite understand but follows anyway, catching up with her in a few strides.

Not slowing her pace, she gives him a sideways look. “Tilly’s on duty, and our quarters are closer,” she says by way of explanation, and it sends a jolt of anticipation through his system. Usually, they spend their time alone at his place, and her hurry to get him alone fuels the heat that’s started building in his belly.

As soon as they’re inside her quarters, Michael crowds Ash against the wall, her mouth capturing his, tongue pushing in and exploring as her restless fingers stroke his face and his neck, slide into his hair, grab at his shoulders; like she can’t stop mapping the shape of him, like she needs to feel every inch of his skin she can reach, setting his nerves alight everywhere she touches. Soon one leg pushes his knees apart, and she steps in even closer, starts riding his thigh.

His blood rushes in his ears, throbs in his chest and groin as he fades into her, as her kisses consume him; her taste, her smell, her heat overwhelming his senses. Everything more acute after two weeks without her.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his mouth, unzipping his uniform jacket as she bites kisses along his jaw, her hands roaming across the fabric beneath, delicious pressure and continuous movement, the mere brush of her palm pebbling his nipples, shooting liquid heat down his spine. Her fingertips tease just at the hem of his shirt, finally sliding high enough to run along his waistband, the reality of her skin against his leaving charges of static in its wake. She grabs on to his ass and pulls him down firmly, the almost painful rub of her pelvic bone and his own zipper against his erection turning him on more, making him groan. It’s pure instinct when he lifts her up and walks them towards the nearest bed. Her legs wrap around him eagerly, her enthusiasm only adding to the pleasant buzz beneath his skin.

“The other one,” she says, a hot giggle tickling just beneath his ear, like she gets a kick out of how gone he is already.

Ash turns and tosses her onto the bed on the opposite side of the room. He follows quickly, looming over her, relishing the sight of her kiss-swollen mouth, of her chest thrust out like she’s offering herself up to him, even as she pulls at his jacket to get it off. He feels energized, in charge and wanted, object and purveyor of her desire.

Michael rucks up his shirt, and he’s already started curling his shoulders to help her get it off when she lets go of the fabric and grabs his face instead, pulling him into a bruising kiss that makes him forget everything else. Her legs clasp around him, her body arching up, everything about her drawing him in. After a few minutes, her palm skims along his ribcage, a hot, intimate press beneath the material of his shirt.

Abruptly, her hands retreat, but before he can make sense of what happened, her fingers slide up and dig into his neck and her legs tighten around him like a vise. “Take off your shirt,” she grates out. “Take your pants off, too.”

And fuck, he wants to, wants to be naked with her, for her, but her aborted attempts to undress him herself give him pause. Even as his hips keep thrusting in a slowed-down rhythm, Ash can’t help noting that her tone isn’t right, has a desperate, impatient edge to it, that there’s a new, uneasy tension in her body.

“How about we wait until,” he stifles a groan when she grinds up into him, has to bite his own lip to anchor himself, “we’re less frantic?”

He wants her, wants her in every way he can have her, but the away mission only drove home how important it is that they’re careful, go about this the right way. Knowing that she was back on Discovery, that she was out there for him to come home to, it meant so much when he was lying alone in his tent at night, soothed him in a way nothing else could. If they go too fast and screw up, there might not be a way back from that. Not again. They can’t fuck this up.

“But we’ve been going slow for so long.” Her voice is precariously close to a whine and she snakes one hand down his chest like she’ll try to take off his shirt herself again. “It’s been months.”

He catches her hand and holds it, moves in to nuzzles her neck. “Pretty great months,” he murmurs, the next roll of his hips deliberately slow, “don’t you think?”

Michael gasps, but still manages to fix him with a half-lidded stare. “If you could choose, things would be different.” Her eyes flash, like she’s challenging him to deny the truth.

He takes a breath, thinks on it for a moment. “Probably, yeah,” he says, letting go of her hand to cup her breast. “I mean,” he lets his voice dip, but doesn’t break eye contact. “I still think about what it was like, touching your breasts,” he swirls his thumb where her nipple is, feels it harden through the thin fabric of her shirt and bra, then pushes his whole body against hers, really making her feel his weight, before his hand moves onto the lean muscle of her stomach, “kissing your belly,” her breath shudders and he slides his hand further down, grabbing at the inside of her thigh, “sucking marks into your skin.” His hand travels to the juncture of her legs, curling around the fleshy heat of her pussy. “Eating you out.” Memories from their time on the ISS Shenzhou rise in his mind like clouds, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You taste amazing everywhere.” The rasp of his voice sounds foreign in his own ears.

Michael draws a shuddering breath beneath him. Her eyes focused only on him, like she’s enthralled by his words, suspended in her own desire.

“But you know what tastes amazing, too?” His tone is slow, dark, in tune with the instinctual movements that have taken over his body.

Her lips part in anticipation.

“Your mouth,” he says and kisses her deeply, thoroughly, only pulling back when they’re both out of air, then diving right back in to nibble down the column of her throat, “and your neck,” he whispers and keeps kissing, keeps licking and biting, the salty taste of her tingling deliciously on his tongue.

Ash buries his nose in the nape of her neck to breathe her in, finds her hand with his and brings it up to his mouth to suck on the heel of it, damp slide across that one spot he knows will make her moan. “And that dip on the inside of your wrist.”

Her eyes flutter closed as a moan breaks free, and Michael bends her head back, her body writhing in a luscious rhythm, braiding them together in a cadence of limbs.

He teases her with his tongue, makes her chase his mouth with hers until she surges up, fuses them together in a kiss. They keep rocking, friction and heat and sweat intensified by the layers of clothing between them, until a familiar urgency in her movements makes him grab her hips, increase frequency and pressure; her sounds, the way her body bends beneath him spurring him on. Pleasure burns his lips, sends flashes of heat down his back and contracts in his groin until he can’t hold back anymore, his eyes squeezing shut as he comes in instinctive shudders.

Working through it, he keeps thrusting against her even as he starts to soften. “Come for me,” he says into her neck, a shameless plea, “Michael, please.” Her hips keep up their fluttery, insistent pulse and finally she groans, loud and lewd, her grip on his back almost painful as she shudders through her own orgasm.

Their movements still into a breathless calm, and Ash takes her with him as he turns over on his side, folding his elbow into a cushion for her head, keeping her body close with his arm. Her eyes are closed, her features slack to the point of being unreadable, and he wonders if he did this the right way. Body heat is radiating between them, and when he pushes his hair back, his hand comes away wet with sweat.

“Good to be home,” he murmurs and touches their foreheads together. Ash loves holding her like this, being close enough to hear and feel her breathing, he just wishes she would look at him so he can be sure she feels the same.

“Thanks for picking me up tonight.” He nudges her nose with his. “Couldn’t have asked for a better welcome.”

Finally she opens her eyes and smiles, but it’s dimmer than he’d have hoped. “I’m sorry it … wasn’t all it could’ve been.”

There’s a sting behind his eyes at the note of self-reproach, and he wants to object, but he can’t seem to find the right thing to say, can’t afford to make it worse, so he stays silent. He can’t fuck this up.

“I don’t think I fully realized how integral you’ve become to my life.” She speaks quietly, almost in a whisper. “I missed you a lot.” The words should make him happy, but the ruefulness in her voice keeps him from enjoying their meaning.

Her hand brushes back and forth across his waist, dragging fabric against damp skin. “And I thought this-” she bites her lip and looks up at the ceiling like she’s searching for the right word, “this _realization_ would be enough to finally push through these weird hang-ups.”

He has to reply to that and quick, he can’t let those words linger like he tacitly agrees. So he takes a breath and cups her jaw. “It’s not weird,” he says slowly, insistently. “So much has happened between us. To us.” He strokes her cheek with his thumb in a motion that’s meant to soothe them both. “It’s crazy we ever found our way back to each other.”

“I just- I want things to be normal between us,” she tries to explain. “And I’m mad at myself for holding us back.” Her eyes cut away.

Something like hunger pangs knots up his gut, and a sense of helpless anger rises. Anger at all they’ve been through, what was done to them. What he did to her. He could have lost her forever, in more ways than one. Rightfully, he should have. And yet Michael’s right here, in his arms, his life, and he’s grateful for that.

“I enjoy what we have right now,” he insists, willing her to believe him. “It’s not lesser. It’s _our_ normal, the pace we need it to be. Both of us.”

She huffs, maybe annoyed, maybe impatient. “But it’s not everything it could be.”

“No, it’s not,” he concedes. “And yeah,” he finds her gaze, “I enjoy that things between us are,” he doesn’t want to use the word _progressing_ , doesn’t want to imply that there’s a certain trajectory they’ll need to follow, “ _evolving_. But that’s not a value judgement on what we have now, right now.” He kisses the corner of her mouth, more of a check-in than anything else. “I’m happy to spend as much time as it takes to get us on the same page.” He gives her a half-smile. “The regular orgasms also help. A lot.”

It makes her chuckle like he hoped it would.

“Michael,” he says, “relationships aren’t about giving or getting _everything_. It’s like …” he tries to think of a good metaphor, one that will make her understand, and lands on something from his childhood. “It’s like _Super Sunshine Trail Mix_ ,” he says triumphantly.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Like what?”

“ _Super Sunshine Trail Mix_. In summer, my mom used to take me hiking and fishing, and we always went by this ranger station where they made their own trail mix. It had cashews and pecans and peanuts and macadamias and sunflower seeds.”

“That’s where the sunshine comes in,” she surmises, following his train of thought, possibly in spite of herself.

“You’d think so,” he taps his nose. “But no, it was packed full with all kinds of dried yellow fruit: pineapples, mangoes, lemons, bananas. It was like an explosion of sunshine in your mouth.”

She laughs out loud, her eyes widening like her own reaction takes her by surprise.

“Just thinking about it makes me taste vacation on my tongue.”

Still laughing softly, she shakes her head.

“Anyway, back to my point. I have a lot of love for _Super Sunshine Trail Mix_. Just thinking about it makes me happy. And yet I haven’t had it in, I don’t know, fifteen years. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to have it. Also doesn’t mean I’m any less happy without it.”

His eyes find hers. “So yes, I would like to have any and all kinds of sex with you, naked and otherwise.” He feels an uncharacteristic blush creep up his chest at the images rising in his mind, but he won’t let himself be distracted. “But I’m also happy where we are right now. It’s great that we’re … _expanding our repertoire_ ,” he suppresses the urge to make air quotes around the expression, “but I’m in no rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”

She sighs, and he can all but see her turning his words over in her mind.

“Michael,” he tries again, “I like you. So much. I like your body and your mind and your determination. I like that you’re smart enough to argue against a ship’s security protocols and win. I like that you stand up for what you believe in. I like that you’re one of the most compassionate, kind people I know.” She looks away, embarrassed probably, but the way her mouth curls seems pleased, too, so he continues. “I feel lucky that we’ve found each other, and that you gave me another chance. I would be okay with a year of hand holding if that’s the pace you need it to be. I never want you to be anything less than enthusiastic about what we’re doing, sexually or otherwise, because I’m very, very enthusiastic about anything I get to do with you.”

He takes her hand, lacing their fingers together, and brings it up to his mouth to press a kiss there.

She tilts her head, a soft expression on her face that makes something warm settle inside of him. Finally, she speaks. “That was a terrible metaphor.”

He tamps down on a huff. “I, for one, think it was inspired,” he says with an air of fake haughtiness.

She shrugs like she’s conceding the point and snuggles into him, her arm sliding around his waist. “Maybe it was,” she all but sighs against the base of his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, Ash is prepping a new round of samples from Bolac Minor, carefully mixing solutions and loading the plate for analysis.

There’s a presence, maybe the hint of a shadow, that makes him look up. 

“You’re pretty good at this,” Jalloh says, pointing at his workstation with a smile. “Precise, patient, good at asking questions.” She ticks the items off on the green tips of her claws.

The first two seem like genuine compliments, but the third one makes him chuckle.

“Asking good questions is harder than you think,” she tilts her head meaningfully. “But it’s one of the most important parts of scientific inquiry.”

“Noted,” he replies, “and thank you.” He sketches a small bow. “I’m learning a lot here.” 

It’s true. Originally, he was assigned to the away team for his caving experience coupled with a few certifications in basic sampling, environmental impact reduction and hazard training. He wasn’t meant to stay on beyond the debrief, but Stamets offered him to assist in categorization, analysis and lab work. It’s nice to know he’s made a good impression, that the team wants him there for finishing up the project.

“The next MLSTP in field research isn’t at capacity yet,” Jalloh says, and he’s not entirely sure where she’s going. He’s not qualified for a mid-level scientific training program; she must have seen his records. His priorities were always in aviation and security. 

“The course starts in two months,” Jalloh continues, like she didn’t notice the confused frown on his face. “Stamets is willing to give you ex-post fieldwork credit for Bolac Minor, so if you take on an additional lab rotation and pass the tests in methodology and chemistry, you’ll be all set with regards to entry requirements.”

He must look dumbfounded because she pats his arm and her voice takes on a softer lilt. “It’s quite a bit of extra work, but we all think you proved more than capable.” 

Since Starfleet took him off security, he’s been feeling a little adrift, bouncing between short-term projects, and this seems almost too good to be true. An opportunity presented to him on a silver platter. Warmth expands in his chest, but it’s laced with anxiety, too. He could always fail and disappoint them. 

“That’s,” he swallows, starts again, “I mean, thank you for your confidence. In me.”

It’s a little scary, going back to full-time training, being part of a small cadre of new people. Ash used to think of himself as a pilot first, but he doesn’t see Starfleet letting him fly in the foreseeable future, so scientific research seems like a fresh start, something he can do and learn with minimal ties to his past, minimal baggage. 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Jalloh assures him. “But it would be good if you let us know by the end of the week, so we can assign you an additional rotation,” she makes a hedging gesture, “should you decide to come aboard.”

“Yes, of course, yes.” He nods, feeling a smile twist his lips. Exploring those caves, knowing that no sentient being had ever seen what they did, it was beautiful, a great rush, even if some of the minutiae were tedious. Ash doesn’t really mind a little tedium these days. This could be good for him. “Thank you, Jalloh, really. I’ll let you know soon.”

“You better,” she says, turning to leave, then throwing him a conspiratorial grin over her shoulder. “You know Stamets gets cranky without enough lead time for the paperwork.”

Immediately, he shoots Michael a message, asking if she can meet him for coffee. She’s the first person he wants to tell, the one he wants to talk through with what could be a big life decision.

She replies almost immediately, and they agree to meet up in an hour. Ash can hardly wait.

\--

He’s reading up on organic chemistry a few nights later when his door signal chimes. He’s thankful for the distraction, although he wonders who it could be. It’s a little late for Rhys or Owo to try and rope him into another card game, and while he sees Michael several nights a week, they don’t really do spontaneous drop-ins.

When he opens the door, it really is Michael.

Stranger still, she’s carrying a mess hall tray.

“Good evening,” she says in that formal way she has sometimes. “I know you’re studying, but maybe you could use a break?”

“I was just about to call it a night, actually.” It’s not strictly true, but he’s done enough reading for one day, so it’s just as well.

“Excellent,” she replies, and there’s a glow about her, like she has news to tell him, something exciting. 

“Come in,” he says and presses a quick kiss to her temple, careful not to disturb what’s on the tray.

She walks over to the sofa and slides the padd on his coffee table out of the way before she sets down the tray.

She brought two small bowls and two teaspoons, a larger spoon and an old-fashioned ice cream scoop. Next to all that sit two large containers. Judging from the condensation on the side of one container and the presence of the ice cream scoop, Ash guesses there’s ice cream in at least one of them.

It’s not something he would have expected from her.

“Surprise ice cream social?” he asks, grinning. “I like the way you think.”

A flicker of something – nerves, maybe, although that doesn’t seem right – crosses her face. “Open it.”

He unseals the first container and licks traces of ice cream off the inside of the lid. “Vanilla.” With gravity he declares, “Classic for a reason.”

She makes a gesture he interprets as _get on with it,_ so he does, revealing mixed nuts in the second container.

“Topping,” he says. “Good idea. I love extra crunch.” He really does. He’s always liked the contrast between different textures and temperatures in his mouth.

There’s tension in Michael’s posture, like something needs to click but doesn’t, and he tries to paper over the momentary awkwardness by scooping some ice cream for the both of them, adding a few spoons of nuts to each of their bowls.

With the third helping of topping, it finally dawns on him. There are nuts, yes, but what he didn’t notice right away are the sunflower seeds and different types of dried fruit. Yellow, all of them.

“ _Super Sunshine Trail Mix_.” He draws out the words, and his mouth pulls into a wide smile that feels incredibly goofy. “Where did you get this?” he asks, disbelief making his voice come out high.

“I made it,” Michael says with an adorably coy glance to the side. “Well,” she clarifies, “I replicated the individual ingredients and combined them.”

He wraps her up in an impulsive hug. “You’re amazing.”

She melts into his arms for a moment, but then starts squirming. “How about you try it before making sweeping declarations?”

“Of course,” he says through a laugh and takes a spoonful of trail mix, shoving it straight into his mouth.

The crunch comes first, salty from the peanuts, buttery from the macadamias and there’s that almost woodsy note from the roasted sunflower seeds. It’s good, if a bit dry. And then the fruit kick in. Tangy pineapple and acidic lemon make his mouth water while an almost creamy banana sweetness and a juicy punch of mango provide a perfect counterpoint.

“‘s so good,” he says before he’s even swallowed it all, holding a hand in front of his mouth to not accidentally spray Michael with bits of trail mix. “Like a party,” his words slur around the food in his mouth, so he makes an effort to gulp everything down. “In my mouth,” he adds with a grin.

His chest swells with nostalgia. It’s less about concrete memories, more about that general feeling of being with his mom, hiking and talking, her explaining bird noises and telling him all the plant names in Standard and Latin. He can almost smell the forest, a breeze of fresh air coming in from the lake.

He tells Michael as much and her smile deepens. For a moment, he thinks she might be indulging him, but then he realizes she’s genuinely delighted by his reaction.

“The ice cream was Tilly’s idea,” she explains, modest as usual, “to make it more of a dessert.”

He scoops up some ice cream with his next spoonful of trail mix and, again with his mouth full, he says, “Perfect.”

He swallows and kisses her with vanilla-flavored lips and a cool tongue. “Tastes almost as good as you,” he murmurs against her mouth.

Pulling back, he nudges her with his shoulder. “Go ahead, you try it, too.”

They wind up eating way too much ice cream and trail mix, the taste reminding him of long-forgotten days out in the woods, like that cloudless day in July when a freak hail storm had surprised his mom and him and they had to take cover under muddy rocks, getting dirty from head to toe, pretending to be grizzly bears to pass the time. Or the first time his mom had tried to teach him how to fish, when his lure got caught in the wing of a duck, and it took them forever to set it free. He shares those stories with Michael, acting out some parts and embellishing others for effect, and the way she laughs, full-throated and open-mouthed, is all the encouragement he needs to keep going.

Eventually Michael chimes in with her own story about a camping trip, when her brilliant scientist parents tried to set up a tent for over an hour before admitting defeat and roasting marshmallows instead.

She licks her spoon. “So when the fire was burning low, we got into our sleeping bags and huddled together under the deflated tent, praying that no wildlife would come find us.” Her eyes glitter when she adds the kicker. “The next night, we slept in a hotel.”

Just as he tries to suppress a yawn, Ash catches Michael covering her mouth to do the same.

“I could give you one of my shirts and a pair of pajama pants. You know,” he scratches at the back of his neck, “if you’d like to sleep over.”

For a moment, he’s unsure what she’s going to say, if maybe his question will ruin the special atmosphere that’s built between them, but when she nods, something inside him settles.

“Sounds good.” She gets up. “I’ll replicate a tooth brush and a hair scarf.”

That night is the first time Michael Burnham sleeps in his bed, her head curled against his shoulder and her arm slung around his waist as they fall asleep.

\--

About a week later, he’s back in bed, spread out in only his underwear, with Michael sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed.

Her eyes travel across his chest, maybe lower, then back up and along the swell of his biceps, emphasized by the way his arms are folded behind his head.

“I think it’s time I touched you,” she says.

He uncrosses his arms and wags his index finger at her playfully. “Nuh-uh, we said no touching yet. Remember? We want to take it slow here.”

Michael seems to go along, but after a few seconds, her look turns pensive. “The rule is just about me touching you, right?”

Ash feels his eyebrows shoot up, water gathering beneath his tongue at the thought of Michael watching him as she touches herself. He can’t even imagine how far she would go, if she would take her top off, would maybe take off more, if she’d touch herself beneath her clothes to tease him, make him use his imagination.

“I guess so,” he says, trying for nonchalance.

“So,” she drawls, holding his gaze. “If I told you to touch your chest, that wouldn’t be against the rules.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Probably not,” his voice comes out a little unsteady, and, judging from the cat-like smile curling her mouth, she’s noticed.

“How about you do that then?”

He nods silently and lets one palm travel from his waist to his sternum and across his chest, the heel of his hand skimming his nipple. Her smile remains unreadable, but her eyes follow the path of his hand, so he roams across his chest again, rubbing his fingers across one nipple until it hardens.

Her lids droop, but her attention remains on his hand. It makes a tense heat rise between them, inside of him, makes his other hand tighten against the fabric of his sheets.

“Is this how you touch yourself when you …” there’s a brief moment of hesitation, but then she comes right out and says it, “get yourself off?”

Her bluntness is like a snap of electricity, making his ass clench.

“Usually, I’m,” his mouth feels too wet and too dry all at once, “a little more goal-oriented.” He gestures towards his groin.

She looks down with open interest and licks her lips. “Show me.”

He wasn’t planning on this, isn’t entirely sure how to play it, but this is Michael asking of her own volition, and, damn, it’s hot she wants to see him touch himself, that looking at his body makes her want him this way.

He tears his eyes away from her mouth to look down on himself, slowly running the flat of his hand across his chest and down his stomach, idling at the hairs just below his navel, feeling the muscles beneath his flesh rise and fall with each breath. It’s a little crazy, definitely a change of pace in their relationship, but it seems even crazier to deny her when the mere thought of her watching him as he gets himself off has him halfway to hard already. So he slides his hand further down across the fabric of his underwear, stopping over the curve of his lower abdomen, right next to his cock, but not touching yet.

Her breath hitches, a tiny, sexy sound, and it gives him the confidence to keep moving, letting his fingertips skip across the crown of his dick beneath the material – _one-two-three, one-two-three_ – like he’s playing the same sequence of notes over and over on the piano. A teasing motion that doesn’t obstruct her view too much, getting himself hard more gradually than he usually would, putting himself on display for her. He keeps his hand on top of his underwear as he finally cups himself through the fabric, feeling out the shape of his own cock, a soft groan escaping his mouth.

It’s a weird, sweltering thrill to know Michael’s watching, to see her form hover at the edge of his vision as he looks down at himself, touches himself. His heartbeat speeds up, even as his blood seems to run slower in his veins.

A small moan reaches his ears, familiar but different with so much space between them. It’s all the encouragement he needs to grab the base of his cock, pulling the fabric tight across, getting himself fully hard with a few quick strokes. He lets his legs fall open to let her see his actions, then glances up, finding her eyes dark and hooded, centered on the outline of his hard-on. He trails his other hand along his thigh to cup his balls, gently scratching, feeling their weight in his palm as he keeps stroking his dick, more leisurely now.

Heat rises in his groin like a livewire pulling tight. It spreads out into his body, his skin getting slick with sweat, beads of it gathering on his chest, in the hollow of his throat. His breathing picks up, too, grows heavier, and Ash parts his lips to exaggerate the sound, make it carry, let her hear how turned on he is.

Michael squirms and the fabric of her slacks shift visibly as she pushes back into the seat, as she rubs her thighs together, her hands around the armrests tightening their hold to the point that her knuckles stand out.

He decides to take a risk. “You could touch yourself, too, even if you don’t want to take your clothes off.”

Michael’s eyes widen and for a moment, she stills.

“No pressure,” he adds, “just … something to keep in mind.”

Her mouth curls in a surprisingly sly smile. “I’ll,” she straightens her shoulders and finds his eyes with hers, “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Ash resumes his movements along his shaft, the material of his underwear starting to catch where he’s leaking pre-come. Directing his gaze back down on himself, he tries to give Michael the illusion of privacy even as he can’t stop looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Soon she runs her fingers along her own arms a few times, like she’s testing it out. Then her hand does a half-turn and this time she slowly drags the flat of her fingernails along the fabric, pulling her hand away until it’s just the sharp crescents raking down her arm.

She’s still looking at him, he senses it more than he sees it, and her right hand reaches across her body to stroke her breast beneath her shirt, the palm of her other hand smoothing up and down along her thigh, grabbing and flexing at her own knee as her breath quickens.

When one hand presses between her thighs, Michael groans, and it echoes deliciously inside the space of his quarters.

Soon, she nestles at the fly of her slacks, and all Ash wants to do is look, but he doesn’t want to add to her doubts, doesn’t want to make it less likely she’ll go through with this. He really, really wants her to go through with this. So he keeps his focus on himself, on the way his cock moves beneath his underwear, beneath the practiced touch of his own hands. He’s unable to shake the awareness of her, how his mind wants to record and catalogue her every movement, wants to witness her giving in to her own desire.

A moan rings out, deep and low, letting him know that she did it, that her hand is inside her pants now, rubbing at her clit. He cuts her a look and it’s electrifying when he finds that her eyes are still on him, following his hand on his cock as she pleasures herself.

There’s not a lot of motion between her thighs, like she’s going for intense stimulation; tight, precise circles that will get her off quick. Her hand on her breast is no longer stroking and caressing, but exerting a high-pressure hold right where her nipple is.

Ash changes the movements of his own hand, trying to give Michael a better view, let her see how hard he is, how the tip of his cock has soaked through his underwear, leaving a dark spot on the fabric. His fingers slip and slide along the outline of himself, his thumb rubbing across the head, and when he looks back at Michael, her teeth dig into the soft flesh of her lower lip as she watches him, a small grunt breaks free.

Her body starts to curl in on itself, her bottom pushing back into the chair, and Ash loves how well he knows these sounds, loves how differently they reverberate from over there. He knows that specific tension in her body, that determination in her features, and it delights him when the coil snaps, her hips rocking in a cascade of small movements as she comes, a string of meaningless sounds falling from her lips.

Her head lolls back, exposing the beautiful column of her throat.

When she rolls her head forward, finding his eyes, the movement is slowed down, sluggish.

“Now make yourself come,” she says in a hoarse voice he has never heard before. The words, the sound, their meaning, it all sends a shock of energy straight to his groin, and he pushes his hand inside his waistband, careful not to push the elastic down. He works himself over with quick pulls, the palm of his hand sliding back and forth over the crown of his cock as filthy sounds rise inside his throat.

He’s so focused on getting off – no, he realizes, so focused on _following her order_ – that he almost misses the movement in the periphery of his vision. Before he can make sense of it, two fingers are shoved between his lips, stretching them, filling his mouth. He groans, but catches himself, closing his lips around those fingers, sucking and licking eagerly.

Michael’s smell fills his nostrils and her taste floods his mouth as he sucks her arousal off of her fingers. It’s so good, so hot. His hand on his cock moves mindlessly, a familiar heat making his balls draw tight. With helpless thrusts into his own hand, he comes, spilling across his fingers inside his underwear.

She starts pulling her hand away, but he catches her fingers with his teeth and re-seals his mouth around them. Just a little more of her taste, of the feeling of her fingers inside of him. He tries to focus his eyes and fixes her with a stare as he suckles.

After a few more seconds, the exhaustion of a bone-deep orgasm catches up with him, and his head falls back, letting go of her fingers with an obscene sound.

Ash closes his eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths as he wipes his hand carelessly on his underwear. “So that was,” his smile must look dopey, but he doesn’t care, “amazing.” He licks his lips, savoring her taste.

“Yeah.” She smiles, lazy but with a teasing edge. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Half an hour ago, Ash might have thought this would make things more awkward between them, that they might feel embarrassed after the heat of the moment has dissipated, that maybe this would be too much too soon. But the way Michael looks at him, relaxed and unguarded, the way she reaches out and squeezes his hand, the way he himself feels, comfortable and happy - everything about this moment assures him this was the right call, one step further in a direction they both want to be going.

When Michael gets up and grabs a shirt and pants from his dresser, easily taking for granted that she’ll sleep over tonight, it just confirms that she feels the same way.


	5. Chapter 5

Between the additional lab rotation and studying for his exams, Ash doesn’t have a lot of spare time, and the hours he is free don’t entirely match up with Michael’s schedule. They still manage to have lunch or at least coffee most work days, but he’s glad he asked for the same days off as her, and has declared Saturdays after lunch a _study-free zone_.

To his surprise, Michael approves immediately. “Research shows that deliberate breaks and rest periods improve recall and test outcomes,” she explains, diligent as usual.

“Huh,” he says. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for following that kind of balanced approach.”

Her mouth bursts open in a laugh. “Oh, _I_ never did.” She presses her hand against her chest. “Nevertheless, I appreciate its theoretical merit.”

He inclines his head, suppressing a chuckle. “Is that so?”

She moves closer, sliding her arms around his waist. “I also appreciate that, personally, I only stand to gain from you following such an approach.”

He closes the gap between them and kisses her slowly, carefully, savoring the initial moment of contact when he first gets to taste her lips, have them open beneath his. Her mouth is eager to let him in, but he keeps teasing her with his tongue, sucking on her upper and lower lip in turn, until she makes an impatient little noise that comes with a puff of warm air from her nose and mouth, tickling his skin. Her arms around him tighten and she presses her wide-open mouth against his to finally deepen the kiss, sending sparks of want through his system, making his heart speed up.

He pulls away just enough to catch his breath and look at her, see her eyes shine and her face gleam. “Seems like a win-win situation to me,” he whispers roughly.

She smiles and grabs at the nape of his neck to pull him back down.

\--

When Michael tries to sneak out of his quarters early the next morning, they agree that the study-free zone extends until after breakfast on Sunday, effectively turning Saturdays into a standing sleepover date.

Turns out being able to tell her that he’s ahead of schedule so they can sleep in and take their time with breakfast is a pretty good motivator to get stuff done during the week.

\--

Two weeks later, Michael brings up the possibility of another object lesson, and the mere mention makes electricity flow, sparking a restless eagerness in his belly.

It’s still hotter than he could have imagined to have her watch him get himself off, especially once she starts touching herself, too, even if he doesn’t get to taste her this time.

After they’ve both calmed down, she comes over to sit beside him on the bed, holding his hand. Through her slacks, he can feel the warm press of flesh against the naked skin of his flank, the contrast making the experience seem sharper, more acute. His thoughts catch on the fact that he can smell both himself and her, can feel the difference between the dry slide of her thumb across the back of his hand and the residual moisture and supple wrinkles on her index finger. 

She smiles at him, a little unfocused, like she’s still hazy from her climax, and untangles their hands to start stroking along his arm, molding the shape of his muscles with her palms, all the way up to his shoulder. He came mere minutes ago, the cool dampness of his underwear is proof of that, but her touch makes a renewed heat contract in his groin, makes his teeth dig into his lip as her thumb traces along his collarbone, more skin-on-skin contact than they’ve had since before everything changed. 

Her expression is calm, content, and her touch gentle, but not overly cautious. They’ve been making out extensively since they’ve started rebuilding their relationship, have been holding hands a lot, too, and he gets delicious friction and frequent orgasms out of their dry sessions and these new explorations, but this is different. Feeling her hands travel across his skin, the lightness of her touch only amplifying the sensation, Ash recognizes what he’s been missing on a deeper level. He feels touch-starved all of a sudden, keen beyond words to feel her skin against his, make as much of their bodies touch as possible. It’s not even sexual, not really, it’s just … he wants to be close to Michael, in every sense of the word.

So when her hand cups his shoulder and she pulls him up and into her, Ash comes willingly, eagerly, his breath hitching as she wraps him up in an embrace, her palms flat against his back, the delicious press of her breasts against his chest, body heat seeping through her shirt and bra.

He hugs her in return, so aware of everything, of the strength in her arms, the tickle of warm fabric against his abdomen, the taste of salt where his mouth presses against her temple; Michael all around him, filling up his senses. Everything about this feels good, feels right, and his eyes slide shut as his body relaxes.

They fade into each other, heartbeats synching up, warmth accumulating everywhere they touch, and he hears, _feels_ , her breathe him in, slow and deep, her chest expanding with it, adding to his sense of contentment.

A spike of tension runs through her. Michael’s spine goes rigid, her muscles hardening beneath his hands. Ash relaxes his hold, but she tightens her grip, pulling him against herself, burying her face in his neck.

He wants it to be the strength of a passionate embrace, but she’s much too stiff for that, drained of the ease and comfort they shared only seconds ago. Instead it feels like she’s making herself go through with this, forcing herself into a closeness and proximity she can barely tolerate.

An uneasy mix of feelings wells up inside of him, spoiling everything, turning what felt right and natural only moments ago into something almost … distasteful. Ash extricates himself from Michael, and after an initial bout of resistance, she lets him go. When the physical contact between them is broken, she exhales, so clearly relieved.

His gut feels heavy, and a sour taste rises in his throat. They’ve had such a good run, well over a month of gradual, enjoyable progress, without interference from their complicated past. Of course that was too good to be true, he realizes. How could she feel completely safe with him, after what he did? How can she even stand to be near him when he misused her trust like that, when he tried to kill her? 

How could anyone get over their kind of history?

Ash tries to squash these thoughts. He gets up to buy himself some time. Putting more space between them, re-establishing boundaries, seems like a good idea, so he tugs his clothes back on and walks over to the couch, shoes and socks in hand. The carpet swallows the sound of his footfalls, and the silence in his quarters suddenly feels oppressive.

He’s hunched over to put his shoes on when her shadow appears in front of him. A small cough rings out, and it sounds strange in the tense quiet that’s descended.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice brittle to the point of breaking. “I really thought I could-” she trails off, then tries again, “I want to-”

He takes a moment to adjust his socks and calm himself before he looks up at her, pasting on a smile. “It’s okay,” he says. _I deserve this_ , he doesn’t say, _I deserve much worse_. “Don’t worry about it.”

There should be more, probably, but he can’t figure out the words, can’t even figure out the thoughts. He felt so good, so sure, only minutes ago, and now everything seems contingent again, certainty slipping away.

Michael flops down heavily beside him and wraps the palm of one hand around a fist made by the other. “It’s not okay,” she says fiercely. “And I do worry about it.”

He inhales, exhales, gathers his thoughts. “That’s normal, too,” he finally settles on.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” An echo of what she’s said too many times, of what he hoped they’d finally overcome. It always stings to hear her put herself down like this. What good is a relationship that keeps making her feel this way? That keeps hurting them both? He tamps down on these thoughts, doesn’t want to follow them to their logical conclusion. The alternative would be worse, so much worse. 

_Cool down, breathe, try and take the edge off._

She looks over at him, and there’s a startling fire in her eyes. “How can you be so calm about this?” she hisses.

He shrugs, ignores the heaviness behind his brows. “We’re working on it, right?”

Her nostrils flare like he said something wrong. “It’s not like we’re making much progress.” She snorts, derisive. “Don’t you get tired of being with someone who can’t even take her clothes off? Who can’t touch you without freezing up?”

The questions are absurd, but the frustration in her words is palpable. He reaches out slowly, careful to let her see his hand approaching her knee to pet it. “I’m not getting tired of you, Michael. Never. I’m right here. No matter how long it takes.” He swallows. “What we have, it’s good. It’s enough.” 

Ash knows what not having her is like; remembers too well from his time on Qo’noS, has been reminded of it on Bolac Minor. He doesn’t want to go back to living without her. He’s too selfish for that. “And if you’ll never feel comfortable with more, that’s okay, too.”

He means to soothe her, offer reassurance, but his words seem to incite her further, and she pushes his hand off of her knee.

“How can you say that?” Her eyes blaze, and Ash feels a surge of irritation in response. “It makes no sense. _I_ make no sense.”

A sudden anger roars inside him. 

“Michael, I tried to fucking kill you.” The words burst forth from a deep, dark place. “Being afraid of me makes more sense than taking me back ever did.”

“That wasn’t you,” she shoots back, her body coiled tight, fists clenched and shoulders pushed forward, like she’s about to jump and tackle him. “That was Voq. We both know that.”

Without warning, she crumbles, shoulders sagging, chin dropping onto her chest. “I know that.” Her voice is unsteady, like she’s pleading with herself to believe the words.

She sobs wetly and adds, “I just want things to be normal between us.” There’s a note of defeat in her voice.

He takes a deep breath. “But that’s the thing,” his weariness is painfully audible, “we’re not normal.” No, he realizes, that’s not quite it. His hands clench into fists. “ _I’m_ not normal. I’ll never be normal again.” 

He’s had the thought before, but saying it out loud still feels strange, like putting words to it hardens it into fact. “This body feels like the one I’ve known for thirty years,” he gestures down at himself, “but twelve months ago, it was still Klingon – or most of it was. I don’t know.” There’s water in his voice. “Because I don’t know how the transformation worked. And I have memories of maybe,” his hand makes a helpless grasping motion, “two months out of seven months I spent in captivity. I’ll probably never get back what’s missing,” he chuckles, and it comes out bitter, “which might be for the best.”

He thinks he’s done, but realizes he left out the best part. An undercurrent of hysteria creeps in when he adds, “Did I mention I know Klingon now and have the memories of a dead zealot inside my head?”

She seems to expel all air in a long huff, propping her hands up on her thighs as she fixes him with an intense stare. “That was done _to you_. You’re not responsible for any of it. But I-“

“But _nothing_ , Michael. No matter how much of a,” _victim?_ he shoves the word aside, “means to an end, or a pawn, or whatever, I was, _you_ didn’t deserve to take the brunt of it. You didn’t deserve any part in it.” He wants to reach out and touch her, but it feels wrong. “From where you were standing, I – Ash Tyler – earned your trust, told you I loved you, and then, I tried to kill you. How could that not be deeply traumatic?” He knew this, of course, has always known, but he’s never spelled it out like that before. The truth of his own words hits him.

“But that’s just it,” she says, sounding small. “That’s just it. Being traumatized would be one thing.” She swallows, gets her voice back for what she says next. “Voq attacked me when we were alone together, in private quarters, in close proximity. He,” she falters, but makes herself continue, “held me by the neck, pushed me against the wall and choked me.”

Ash has to turn away, can’t bear to look at her as she lays out undeniable facts.

“But the truth is that since you were brought back as Ash Tyler, I never felt unsafe with you. Not really. I sought you out, on my own, after the procedure. When we went to Qo’noS, Tilly offered to trade places, so I wouldn’t have to go and be alone with you, but I refused. Hell,” the rare expletive from her surprises him, as does the returning vehemence in her tone, “I kissed you on Qo’noS. I wanted you to stay with me even then.”

“That’s not-“ he tries to interrupt, but she holds up her hand to silence him.

“That’s not all.” She pins him with a dark look. “As soon as you came back aboard Discovery, I sought you out. Alone. And it wasn’t just to talk either.” She licks her lips, then presses them together. “I love it when you touch my neck, when you hold my face, when you stroke along my throat.” Her eyebrows rise, like she dares him to deny her words. “And you know that. You knew even when you were still with Section 31, when things between us were so fraught, still up in the air. You felt that’s what I needed, and you gave it to me.” There’s a deep ache burrowing inside his chest, making it hard to breathe.

She shakes her head and looks away. “So how can that be? Such similar situations: alone in quarters that aren’t mine, your hands on my neck, no one there to intervene, save me if something goes wrong.” She turns towards him. “And what do I feel? Fear, anxiety?” She shakes her head. “No. I feel excitement. Arousal. There’s nothing else, no sense of danger or dread. I just want you.” Looking down into her lap, she adds, “I always want you,” like an afterthought.

In spite of everything, her words spark a flame, turn him on, no matter how out of place that reaction is, how inappropriate.

“And once we’re done?” Her voice cracks. “I’m happy. I feel good in your arms, safe. We laugh and talk for hours. I started sleeping here, for sol’s sake. And I sleep well.” She makes a helpless gesture. “Being unconscious with you, completely defenseless, is no problem, but taking off my shirt is? Touching your body is? It makes no sense.”

She scrubs both hands across her face. “If I were afraid to be alone with you, that would make sense. If I froze when you come too close, when you touch my neck, that would make sense. But that’s not it. I have no problem being vulnerable with you.” She blinks rapidly, most likely to stave off tears. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about. But then, taking my clothes off, having your naked body in my arms – trivial, everyday things when you’re with someone – that’s what makes me freeze up. That’s what makes me uneasy.”

Something in his chests opens up, aching to reach out. It’s the same struggle she’s fought ever since they first met. Logic versus emotion. She’s come so far, he knows. She’s built strong relationships on this ship, has allowed her caring, softer side to show. Has shared it with people like Tilly and Saru, who’ve become true friends and allies. But when it comes to her own complicated emotions, she still tries to reason herself out of them, subdue them with logic.

“Michael,” he says, making his voice gentle, “trauma doesn’t work like that. It’s not logical. It’s complicated and messy.”

She looks at him without response, eyes swimming.

He steels himself, straightens his spine and tries for a neutral tone. “I have so few memories of what happened between L’Rell and Voq on the Ship of the Dead. Same for what happened between Ash Tyler and her.” An involuntary twitch runs through his arm as he pushes away the memories of when he was first captured. “It’s all fragmented, jumbled. I told you, I have memories of maybe two months for a period of time spanning seven.” His voice wants to dry up, but he keeps talking in spite of it. “But what I do know is that L’Rell called the shots, that she was in charge before Ash Tyler was even in the picture. And no matter what Voq thought, I, Ash Tyler, felt helpless, felt violated. I was afraid of her.” He runs a hand through his hair, making a fist and pulling it back until his scalp prickles with pain. “And yet, I like it when you are in charge. I like it when you tell me what to do, when you’re on top, when you show me what you need from me.” Emotions he can’t fully name swirl inside of him, shame, arousal, anxiety among them, but he soldiers on. 

“Before the war, I was never too hung up on these things either way.” It’s a truth that stings his throat, his eyes, makes his nails dig into the flesh of his palm. “What does that mean? Is it a part of Voq still inside of me that wants my partner to be in control? Is that why I want to pledge myself to you and be yours?” The words are wrong, too formal, too fraught, but he can’t take them back. Not now. Not when they’re true.

So he forges on, keeps speaking from the depth inside of him, hoping that, somehow, it will be enough. “I want to say no, I want to think it’s just you and me and us. That it’s our special connection that makes me feel all this, but,” his face burns hot and Ash feels one tear, then another spill from the corner of his eye, “I don’t know. The truth is that I might never know.” He squeezes his lids shut and his next words come out defiant. “But you know what’s another truth? That maybe it doesn’t matter so much. Maybe we deserve to be happy even if we’re not always entirely sure of ourselves and our actions. Maybe we get points for trying.”

Ash wants it to be true, needs it to be. He’s holding back more tears, tries to smile at her. It feels crooked, but it doesn’t feel false.

With a slow, drawn-out exhale, Michael rises off of the couch and turns away. A cold panic grips him. Did he say too much? Did he put too much pressure on her, reveal too much of his own trauma? Did his words scare her away? He doesn’t know what he’ll do without her, who he’ll be. 

He doesn’t want to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

His skin feels tacky, his mouth parched, and his limbs are like lead, weighing him down, keeping him from getting up, keeping him from trying to make her stay.

After everything they’ve been through, is this how it ends?

It takes him longer than it should to realize Michael’s not heading for the door at all, but for the replicator.

Without meaning to, Ash catches his breath, and it sounds too loud in the tense quiet all around them.

There’s a question in Michael’s eyes when she hands him one of two glasses of water, but he doesn’t understand what she’s asking, doesn’t know how to answer. _She’s still here_ , he thinks, the fact sinking in slowly. _She didn’t leave._

It’s ridiculous how his mind snatches on the fact that she got some water for him, too. It’s such a trivial thing, a courtesy, yet it feels like a sign. Her taking care of him in a small but fundamental way.

Some of the tension coiled tight behind his sternum dissipates and he takes a drink, like he could wash away the stiffness that remains.

Michael drains half her glass and sits down heavily on the opposite end of the couch. Her eyes fixate on the surface of his coffee table as she starts speaking.

“I’m smart.” She says it defiantly, her chin jutted out against the way her eyes well up. “Well educated. Well trained. Highly experienced.” Her shoulders heave with a deep sigh. “And yet I’ve made so many bad choices. Pushing Spock away, defying Georgiou, trusting Lorca, going along with the emperor’s plan on Qo’noS …”

Her tone is flat, almost, and he knows she’s trying to keep her emotions at bay, keep herself at a remove from what she’s feeling.

“None of that was your fault, Michael. You know that,” his words come out harsh, and he adds a gentler, “You have to know that.”

She shoots him a sharp look, her voice trembling beneath the flat affectation. “I started a war, Ash.” Her eyes cut away. “I helped Lorca. I almost facilitated a genocide of the Klingon people.”

There’s a dull, throbbing anger asserting itself inside his skull. How can someone so bright be so reductive? Why does she always try and take on everyone else’s burden? He takes a swig of water, then puts his glass down.

“Awful stuff happens,” he enunciates his words slowly, careful to keep his voice calm. “And you saw more terrible things happen than any one person should.” Clasping his hands together, he leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. They’re sitting too far apart for it to close the gap between them. “That doesn’t make you responsible.” He tries to find her gaze, but she won’t look at him.

“You’re not responsible,” he repeats, putting all his conviction into the words. “You were pushed into impossible situations and still managed to do a lot of good.” His voice grows soft, almost cracks. “Your courage, your integrity, saved a lot of people.” 

She slaps her own thigh in frustration, startling him with the sudden outburst. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” Finally, she turns to look at him. “But the fact remains that my choices are flawed, that I keep trusting the wrong people.” Her expression is pleading, simultaneously too young and too old, a mark of how much she’s had to live through.

The conclusion seems so clear now, inevitable. She deserves better. She deserves happiness. He doesn’t deserve her. “So maybe I’m the wrong choice, too,” he says.

Michael shakes her head, lips pressed into a tight line. “No, Ash, that’s not …”

“But it is, isn’t it?” There’s too much water in his eyes, in his mouth. “It’s only logical.” He bites his lip against the pain. “Michael, I tried to kill you.”

“I know it wasn’t you.” She reaches out to take his hand, but he pulls away.

“It was the same body I am in now.” He gestures down at himself. “I still remember it, too. I don’t want to, but I can go inside that memory, I can retrieve it right now.” Just saying it out loud makes a feeling of disgust seethe in his gut, a gnarled and twisted thing.

“Everyone on this ship pushes the thought away, but the truth is that we still don’t understand what was done to me, how the procedure worked, or how L’Rell reversed it. So how can we be sure that the reversal is complete?” His voice climbs higher until it’s close to a shriek, and he swallows, tries to get it back under control.

“Tests, yeah.” He can’t seem to get rid of the note of hysteria. “This body,” he hits the place over his heart with his fist, “and this mind fooled tests before. The truth is that we can’t be sure, no one can be sure.” He chuckles but doesn’t know why. “That’s why they took away my high-level clearance, that’s why I’m no longer part of security, why they won’t let me fly. And you know what?” There’s anger in his voice, but it’s not directed at her, isn’t directed at his superior officers or even at Starfleet. “That’s the right decision. It’s smart. Because there is a danger – negligible, I hope, contained – that there’s someone else still lurking inside me, that there is some kind of secret programming, some kind of switch that could make me go off, could make me forget who I am.”

It’s a reckoning and a realization. Thoughts and feelings that have been swirling inside his mind, his subconscious, for almost a year solidifying into something painfully cohesive. He nods at Michael to emphasize his point. “So _yes_ , you should be asking these questions about me. It’s not wrong, you’re not betraying me. It’s necessary to protect yourself.”

She sinks back against the couch, lids sliding shut and head shaking. A few tears are trickling down her face and her breath hitches several times before it evens out.

After long minutes, she opens her eyes and gives him a melancholy smile. “But if I can’t trust myself and you can’t trust yourself, where does that leave us?”

He waits for the anger to hit, for anything that will be louder than that deep, weary pain that churns in his gut, but it doesn’t come. It’s just them, him and her, alone in his quarters with nowhere to go.

“I don’t know.” Everything about him feels too heavy and he droops against the armrest, away from her, waiting for her goodbye, waiting for her to leave.

The panic from earlier is gone. All there is is a profound weariness, an exhaustion so deep it might swallow him whole. He can’t be with her, not after what he did. The past months were a gift, an improbable, incredible gift, and it will have to be enough. He will make it be enough.

On some level, he always knew that to love Michael was to find the strength to let her go, give her space. That’s why he left for Qo’noS. 

His mistake was coming back.

No parting words come. No sound, no movement. She doesn’t even look at him. But she stays. The longer she does, the more it puts him on edge. Ash wants to break the silence, break the tension, but he doesn’t know how.

At last, she gets up. His stomach lurches, and his heart leaps into his throat. _This is it._

She fixes a point next to his shoulder. “Do you want some tea?”

The question throws him for a loop to a point where he can’t even process its meaning. “What?”

“Tea,” she says, “always helps me think.”

It’s so incongruous with the conversation they’ve just had that he doesn’t have an answer.

Michael shrugs. “I’ll get you some, just in case.”

He feels like he’s been reading two very different books concurrently and accidentally clicked on the wrong one, trying to understand a scene with the completely wrong context in mind. His pulse is racing, like it’s trying to catch up, give his brain more oxygen to make sense of what’s going on.

“Here,” she puts a cup down in front of him, “Peppermint with honey, I hope that’s okay.”

Ash feels a small, crooked smile twist his mouth. Michael doesn’t like sweet drinks, but he does. It’s so like her to be thoughtful even at a time like this, considerate, but he still doesn’t understand why she’s staying.

She breathes in the steam from her cup before taking her first sip. She looks tired and wrung out, and thinking that this might be the last time he gets to see her alone makes his eyes burn.

Eventually, he takes a drink, too. It tastes good, honey and menthol, warm and refreshing at the same time.

“We’re not going to figure this out tonight,” she says.

It feels like there’s too much air trapped in his throat. “Probably not.” Ash has no idea what that means.

She finishes her tea and puts the glass away while he’s still completely at sea as to what’s going on.

“I’ll use the bathroom first, okay?” she asks as she opens his dresser and gets out one of his t-shirts and some workout pants.

His blood rushes too loud in his ears and the muscles in his back twitch. “You want to stay?” His voice is incredulous, too loud.

She purses her lips and regards him. “Don’t you want me to stay?”

“I,” he doesn’t know what to think, how to think, “I thought that-” _you’d leave, that I’d already lost you._ He catches himself. “I thought you might want some time. Alone. To think.” His stomach is tied up in red-hot knots.

She looks straight at him, but he’s too caught up in his own emotions to read her expression. 

“I don’t.” Her voice is calm. “I don’t want either of us to be alone tonight and worry ourselves out of our minds.” She takes a deep, even breath. “I want to figure this out. Together. Tomorrow.” She inclines her head. “Right now, I just want to sleep. So the question is: What do you want?”

There’s a jackhammer inside his skull, making his whole body feel unstable, like it might vibrate apart, disintegrate at any second. Every muscle, every tendon feels strained, on the verge of snapping.

A flood of words accumulates in his lungs, his mouth, trying to break free. _Why are you still here? How could we ever hope to figure this out, after everything?_ His unasked questions curdle into statements, and the shrill pulse of the jackhammer turns into the slower beat of a drum. _You deserve better. This was never supposed to work. I don’t deserve you._

Everything hurts, chips away at his dwindling strength. At least the exhaustion further quiets the buzzing, grounds him in his own skin, until, beneath the heaviness, there’s a lightness growing, her words lifting him up, reminding him of what he himself said earlier.

_Maybe we deserve to be happy, even if we’re not always entirely sure of ourselves and our actions. Maybe we get points for trying._

She wants to stay. She wants to try. Whatever else is true, whatever there is to work through, Michael wants to stay. He has no idea how that’s supposed to work, isn’t sure it will, but right now, there’s only one answer. “I want you to stay.” He wants to try and keep trying.

Michael smiles, tired but real. “Good,” she says and opens the bathroom door.

\--

When she emerges after a few minutes, he’s already curled up on the couch with a blanket, his feet hanging off a little awkwardly, but he’ll make do. He decided to skip brushing his teeth for once, and he’s so tired he doesn’t even feel the need to pee. 

There’s still a strange restlessness underneath it all, but he’s sure once she’s turned off the light, it’ll fade enough for sleep to knock him out cold. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Michael asks, and when he opens his eyes, she’s standing right in front of him with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised. 

Seeing her in his clothes, the shirt’s neck too wide, pant legs rolled up to an almost comic degree, gives him a quiet thrill. No matter what happens tomorrow, he has a chance to keep trying. He just might get to keep this, keep her. 

“Trying to fall asleep.” It comes out more like a question.

“I was thinking separate bed sheets.” She points at the couch. “But you’re not throwing out your back on this thing.” Her tone is meant to sound decisive, but she can’t entirely mask the fatigue in her voice.

Motioning for him to get up, she adds, “You can bring your blanket.”

Maybe he should protest, but he doesn’t want to, and so he follows her and gets into bed on what he’s come to think of as his side when she sleeps over, wrapping himself up in his blanket, careful not to take up any more space than necessary.

She gets in beside him, pulling the covers all the way up to her chin. They’re both lying on their backs, stiff as planks, and Ash has to force himself not to open his eyes and check what she’s doing, not to try and inhale the faint whiff of her scent, not to time his breathing to hers.

This is ridiculous, he decides, and turns onto his side, facing away from her so she won’t feel crowded, so he won’t be tempted to look at her all night. He misses the way she slings her arm around his waist, but having her close by still feels good, soothing.

Michael was right, even with the unaccustomed distance between them, this must be better than being alone with his thoughts. Every time his mind tries to wander, go to dark places, he reminds himself that she doesn’t have to be here, that, after everything, she chose him, that she wants to keep trying. Her presence right here in his bed is proof of that.

After a while, there’s some rustling of fabric behind him, and something’s nudging against his back. It’s Michael’s hand, sliding between the blanket and his upper arm, curling around his ribcage.

“My hand is cold,” she mumbles. Moments later, he feels what must be her forehead resting between his shoulder blades as she huddles closer.

Once her touch is there to reassure him, settle him, it doesn’t take Ash long to fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Nine days later, Ash’s hand hovers over the _exam complete_ button as the timer counts down. Three minutes and twelve seconds left.

He could read through the test one more time, try to re-structure the compounds in question seven that he knows aren’t quite right, even if he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe check his prose answers for clarity and spelling. He’s come to rely too much on auto-grammar since his academy days.

_Two minutes and ten seconds._

He did his best, no need to draw this out, he decides, takes a drink of water and presses the button.

After a few minutes, the door opens and Stamets comes in, followed by Jalloh and Naqvi.

“Exactly two minutes early, Mr. Tyler,” he pronounces, “and an extraordinarily average result to boot.”

Jalloh jostles Stamets’ shoulder and holds out a plate with a giant muffin. The words _Congratulations, Tyler!_ are written on it in Starfleet-blue frosting, and there’s a sparkler on top.

“What he means to say is, _You passed, congratulations!_ ” Jalloh says with a smile.

“That’s what I was saying,” Stamets insists, his features migrating towards the middle of his face like they tend to do when he’s genuinely perplexed. “You passed with 87.07 percent. That is the exact average of the other fourteen trainees admitted to the program.”

Ash can’t help but laugh at that. “Thank you, sir,” he says. “I appreciate the insight.”

The thing is, he does. Ash has never been wildly competitive, doesn’t need to be the best or even in the top three, but it’s good to know he’s right there in the middle of the pack, that he didn’t just scrape through.

Naqvi’s uncharacteristic hug jolts him out of his wandering thoughts. “Well done, Tyler.”

“Thanks again,” he replies, addressing everyone, “for this opportunity and for helping me make it happen.” He takes the muffin and toasts them with it as if it were a glass of champagne. “Team Science!”

“Hear, hear,” they reply, not quite in unison, and after they’ve divvied up the muffin, Stamets gives him the rest of the day off and tells the other two to get back to work.

Somewhat awkwardly, he pats Ash on the back. “Good job,” he says, turning to leave before Ash can reply.

When the door closes behind Stamets, Ash breathes a sigh of relief. His field credit has been approved, his lab rotation is over and he just passed his admissions exam. He did it. Come next week, he’s going to start the MLSTP. He’s going to be a scientist.

Ash’s chest feels lighter yet full.

He wishes he could comm Michael, meet up and tell her how it went, thank her for her support, but she couldn’t get out of a pre-scheduled training exercise today and already warned him that it might run well into the night.

So he writes her a quick note with the good news, asking her to catch up the next day. He sends another message to Owosekun to see if she’s up for a few rounds of DesCards tonight. Rhys has gotten a sizable chunk of the crew addicted to the game, and teaming up with Owo has worked out pretty well for Ash before. It helps that their skills complement each other: she has a knack for long-term strategy and complicated maneuvers, while he’s quick with numbers and lucky with the draw. Like Voq, he can’t help thinking.

Ash pushes the thought away. Ash Tyler might not have been great at games of chance, but at the academy, he did win a few rounds of poker, too.

By the time he’s arrived in his quarters, Owo’s already messaged back to say she’s in.

Ash sets his alarm and lies down for a well-deserved nap.

\--

_Damn, damn, damn._

He checks his hand again and compares it to the grid of cards hovering in the air, trying to remember the discarded face-downs that could come back to haunt him if Nilsson or Rhys go for a swap.

Ash calculates a few possible outcomes in his head. If he forfeits his turn to draw another card and Owo has enough points to fortify their cluster, there’s still a chance for them to win this round. If not, they’ll crash and burn.

Owo gives him a subtle nod, and Ash decides to go for it, trust the plan she sketched out before the silent round.

“Forfeit,” he declares and draws a card.

As expected, Nilsson swoops in to trade one of his face-downs before she and Rhys position two cards each inside the grid, closing two clusters and racking up enough points to win the game – unless Ash’s gamble pays off.

Nilsson mimics a high-five in Rhys’s direction, which makes both Owo and Ash roll their eyes. To be fair, if it were the other way around, it would be hard for Ash not to cackle with glee.

As it is, Owo needs two specific cards out of a deck of 156 to enable a double-play, which is the only way for them to maintain their chance to move into the semi-finals of this impromptu tournament.

Owo slowly turns the three-dimensional grid, carefully removing cards. Nilsson looks as puzzled as Ash feels and seems about to protest when Rhys gestures for her to stand down.

 _Fuck_ , Ash realizes, Owo’s clearing out all single-value cards. She’s going for a Tritanium Streak. He hasn’t seen that maneuver played before, but he remembers it from the rules demo. If she can make it work, it’s an instant win.

He’s brimming with anticipation, but he can’t do anything about it. Since he doesn’t know her card values, he can’t even follow her calculations in his head.

Something touches his shoulder, and the muscles in his back lock, his grip tightening around his cards. Ash makes himself turn around slowly, breathes in and out deliberately.

“Michael,” he says, too much surprise, too much relief in his voice when he finds her crouching behind him. He wills his body to relax, and with a few moments’ delay, it does. “I thought you’d be at that training exercise all night.”

Michael’s hand runs back and forth across his shoulder, like she’s noticed the tension there and is trying to smooth it out. “That was the plan.” She grins at him. “Turns out the non-emergency training directive strongly discourages onboard exercises exceeding a ten-hour limit.” There’s a gleam in her eye when she adds, “Commander Larak was quite amenable once this was pointed out to him.”

One guess as to who knew the rules well enough to point out his oversight.

Ash shakes his head and laughs. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”

Just then, someone clears their throat, and Michael straightens. “Sorry,” she gives a self-conscious shrug, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Her hand remains on his neck just a little longer. “I’ll get myself something to drink. Find me when you’re done. No rush.”

“I will,” he says and quickly squeezes her hand before turning around.

In the past minute or two, Owo has decimated the grid, and several players around the room have cottoned on to what she’s trying to do, all turning towards their table to see if she can pull off the Tritanium Streak. Rhys’s leg jangles visibly and Ash can feel tension returning to his shoulders. It’s just a game, of course, but there’s a reason half the crew can’t stop playing.

Owo signs for him to pick up his third face-down, and he does. It’s a double root. Owo takes a breath and places her cards inside the grid. _One. Two. Three._ She slides the grid around so he can place his card right in the middle, closing three clusters at once. Their points total shoots up, leaving their opponents with a razor-thin advantage, but Owo isn’t done. Very carefully, she positions three more cards into a V-shape.

Now it’s his turn for the multiplier. Luck of the draw.

Ash puts the card in place, but he already knows it won’t be enough.

“Forced draw,” the grid announced before it disintegrates, all cards falling onto the table in a neat pile. A disappointed murmur goes through their audience as they return to their own games.

“Damn.” Owo hits her thigh with the flat of her hand. “So close.”

“Sorry,” he says with an apologetic shrug.

“Better luck next time.” She’s shaking it off already, which is one of the things he likes about her. A big grin grows on her face. “Amazing play, though, right?” Her eyes shine and she waggles her eyebrows.

“Mind-blowing,” he agrees. “You’re a true master and inspiration.” He takes a mock bow but means it, too.

Just then, Detmer, who’s been heckling them for a while now, all in good fun, offers to tap in for him. When Owo nods in agreement, he’s glad to take her up on it.

“Leaving so soon, Tyler?” Nilsson teases.

“Intimidated by our superior skills?” Rhys chimes in.

“Superior skills?” Ash gets up, shooting them a skeptical look. “We’ll talk again after these two,” he points at Owo and Detmer, “are finished handing you your own asses.”

Nilsson makes a shooing gesture. “You’re either in or you’re out, Tyler, so get lost.”

As he says his goodbyes, Ash is hit by a surprising wave of warmth. These people are more than his colleagues, he realizes, they’ve become his friends. They go out, drink and play games together. And sometimes, they trash talk him, just like everybody else, because that’s how they see him, as part of the crew. Someone who belongs here.

It’s a pleasant realization on a day that has the potential to get even better once he finds Michael.

In spite of his exam approaching, they’ve managed to get back to a pretty good place since their fight. Michael’s determination to make it work, to see him every day, even if it was just for coffee, played a big part in that. It was reassuring to see how much she wants this, too, how she tried to keep the lines of communication open, power through the residual awkwardness.

Apart from brief hugs and quick kisses, they haven’t really been physically intimate again, but they managed to rebuild and strengthen what they have in other ways. It wasn’t just the conversations, which were difficult sometimes; it was the silences, too. Michael coming over when he was studying, sitting down on the other side of his couch with a cup of tea and her padd, putting her feet in his lap while both of them were reading. Her sleeping over a few times, even when their shifts didn’t match up, just to let him know she was there, that she wanted to be with him.

It feels like they’re on more solid ground now, like their relationship is evolving. Coming to think of it, the way she touched him when she came in earlier fits right in with that. Definitely more than a friendly gesture; a quietly intimate touch he could get used to.

He finds Michael in conversation with Linus, and once he’s close enough, Ash only hesitates for a brief moment before sliding his arm around her back.

Her smile brightens at his touch, and she wraps her arm around his waist in return. “Hey,” she says in a soft voice.

“Hey,” he replies, just as soft, before he turns towards Linus.

“Hey Linus.” He makes his voice louder, more jovial. “How’s the jazz quartet coming along?”

\--

An hour later, or maybe it’s been two, Michael and Ash are sitting on his couch, entangled in a loose, warm embrace. They’ve been making out so long that his lips feel swollen, a little too tender, even as their kisses remain slow explorations, open mouths and little pressure. His every kiss a question, her every kiss an answer.

Reacquainting themselves over and over again, relearning her taste, her smell, the way she smiles into his mouth when he curls his tongue just so, the way her breath hitches when his thumb rubs at the divot of her inner wrist.

She sighs into his mouth and pulls away an inch or two, just enough for her hooded eyes to catch his gaze.

“You put your arm around me tonight. In front of everybody,” she says. In that moment, he had been so sure it was okay, would have sworn that she’d leaned into his embrace, but now there’s a spark of uncertainty.

“I liked that,” she whispers. “I liked that a lot.”

He exhales, feels a slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she breathes the word and they’re so close that he can feel it on his lips. “It was the first time you did that ever since,” she pauses briefly but continues in a steady voice, “what happened in the other universe.”

“I guess so,” he admits. He’s never thought of it quite this way before. “I mean, I wasn’t sure how much you were comfortable with,” he can’t seem to find the right word, “ _broadcasting_ what we have. With people knowing.”

To his utter surprise, she laughs, quick and bright. “You do realize that Tilly likes to host all-night Kadis-kot events in our quarters when I sleep over, right?” Her head shakes and her eyes sparkle. “I’m fairly sure everybody knows.”

“I didn’t know they went all night,” he protests, like that’s even remotely close to the point here. “I also didn’t know you told her where you were.” It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud. That Michael would make up excuses for staying away all night instead of simply telling Tilly she was with him. He still can’t help asking the next question. “Even Saru?”

She suppresses a snort, but barely. “Judging from how profusely he apologized to me for pulling you off bridge duty, I’d think so.”

It all makes sense once he stops to think about it. How they always seem to find seats next to each other, even though they rarely arrive at the same time. The way their colleagues mostly leave them alone to have lunch or coffee together instead of pulling up chairs and joining in like they do when he’s alone or with anybody else. How nobody ever seems surprised when they invite one of them and the other shows up, too.

“I feel stupid,” he says, his nose wrinkling in embarrassment. “I thought we were being _discreet_.” He smiles sheepishly at her. “But I’d like to be more … demonstrative, if that’s what you want, too.”

“I do.” Her fingertips stroke along his cheek. “I appreciate your professionalism at work, but in an informal setting, I’d like to not always have to take the first step.” Her mouth curls like she’s embarrassed. “Especially since I’m not very good at it.”

It dawns on him that, yes, that’s what his behavior might have looked like from her perspective. He always thought of it in terms of giving her space, letting her set the pace; treated the times when she did touch his arm or take his hand outside his quarters as indulgences on her part instead of signals that she’d like to be a little more affectionate in public.

He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles one by one. “I’ll take you up on that.”

“Good,” she pecks him on the mouth, quick and dry, before she straddles his lap for the first time since their fight, standing up on her knees and touching her nose to his. “I want people to know we belong together,” she murmurs.

A fluttery sound catches in his throat. “Are you sure-”

He forgets what he wants to ask when she grinds down, eliciting a low moan, making his hands tighten around the soft swell of her hips.

\--

“I missed this a lot,” she says sometime later, snuggled close against his chest, seemingly oblivious to how damp his shirt is, how there’s too much heat and stickiness trapped inside his clothes.

“Me, too.” He presses a kiss to her temple, feeling her pulse there.

“I also missed the object lessons.” A sly note colors her voice. “I thought about our situation, and I have a proposition for you.” She tilts her head up at him. “Not for tonight, just for you to think it over.”

He nods, his interest piqued by the curious lead-in.

“I like looking at you,” the corner of her mouth quirks and she looks away, “without your clothes on.” The words send a quick rush of excitement down his back. “But I don’t want to just look, I want to touch you. This,” she motions between the both of them, “is great, but I want more.”

She finds his eyes again. “I want to feel how warm your skin is and how soft.” He thinks she might be blushing, but she keeps holding his gaze. “I want to kiss your chest, have the hairs there tickle my nose.” All of that sounds pretty good to him, but after what happened last time, he’s not sure how they can get from here to there.

She sighs. “I just, I think that, initially, I just want to,” she swallows as if to buy herself some time, “explore you. Focus on the ways I am touching you, and not having to process how your touch might affect me in return.”

He nods. It’s unusual, yes, but it makes sense.

“So I thought that, maybe, it would help to take the notion of reciprocity off the table for a while.”

Her argument follows a similar logic to the object lessons: breaking up what’s usually deeply entangled into more manageable steps. Considering how well that worked for them, at least for a while, he’s definitely interested. “Yeah, okay.”

She presses her hands together, one thumb on top of the other. “By restraining you.”

His eyes widen, an unexpected frisson in his gut sending a low current through his body, spreading out all the way into his toes and fingertips. “What?” he hears himself say.

“I’d like to … tie you up,” her palms move against each other, “or down.” She cocks her head. “If that’s something you’d be okay with?”

His mind is completely empty. “How?” he asks finally, voice dry.

“I was thinking scarves or a soft kind of rope, like the belt of your bathrobe,” she points in the direction of his closet. “If you’d prefer something … sturdier, like metal handcuffs, we could replicate that, of course.”

She must have put quite a bit of thought into this.

“Soft,” he says, maybe too quickly, “soft is good.”

He doesn’t want the silence to linger, so he blurts out. “Where?” 

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, the question feels stupid, but she doesn’t seem to think so.

“I thought on the bed.” Michael gives a light shrug. “Secure one end around one leg of the bed, the other around your wrists and ankles.”

“Ankles, too?” The idea of his wrists being bound has some appeal, even if he doesn’t fully understand it himself, stokes some strange flame beneath his sternum, but having his ankles tied, too, being essentially immobile – it seems dangerous, like leaping into brackish water, and it makes his muscles twitch.

She hums in response. “That was my initial thought.” Her lips purse as she ponders his question.

“You’re right,” she concludes, her voice almost cheerful. “I don’t think that’s actually necessary.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding along with his own words, “okay. Wrists only. I’m okay with that. Let’s try that.”

Her fingers stroke along his jaw, and her smile is warm, reassuring.

Ash smiles back before a big, hearty yawn overtakes him.

“Some other time,” he murmurs as he pulls her closer.


	8. Chapter 8

Michael brings up the ropes only days later, pulling back just a few minutes after their kisses have become heated, after both their hands have started roaming.

“About our … advanced lessons.” Her eyes cut away for a split-second, but find and connect with his when she continues. “Would you be okay trying it out today?”

“I assume by _advanced_ you mean …” He crosses his wrists in front of himself, throwing a smirk her way.

“We don’t have to,” she says, uncharacteristically quick to retreat, and he realizes his reply came off more flippant than he might have intended. Ash doesn’t want to make her feel like it wasn’t alright to ask, and he’s open to try, he is. He can’t offer her more than that, but he definitely doesn’t want Michael to think that he just agreed the other day to shut down the conversation.

He slides his hands across her waist and moves in close, finding her gaze.

“Sorry,” he says. “I want to. I just-” He shrugs. “I haven’t done anything like this before.”

Unbidden thoughts rush in. Strictly speaking, the statement is not entirely true. Ash Tyler and Voq both have been tied up on the Ship of the Dead, one to be tortured, both to be operated upon; to be reduced and sliced and merged. But that was different. A different time, a different place, different lights and smells and sounds. And with a very different woman.

“Me either.” Michael shrugs awkwardly and chuckles, a stifled sound, nervousness bleeding through. It makes her look so innocent, artless, for lack of a better word, and the openness in her expression pushes the dark thoughts away, makes his chest swell with affection, with an urge to reach out and connect.

“So,” she rubs her hands together. “I did some research.”

That makes him laugh, relax further. “Of course you did.”

She ignores the teasing note in his voice. “There are a surprising number of ways to do this. Initially, I thought of you lying on the bed, each arm tied to one corner.” She gestures to one side of his bed, then the other, her hands more expressive, like they tend to be when she’s nervous. “But we could also tie your wrists like you just did. Either above your head,” she points up, a lilt in her voice that seems to vibrate with a blend of excitement and anxiety, similar to the mix of feelings her words elicit in him, “or behind your back. Or,” she grabs her own biceps, “we could use belts to tie your arms against your body.”

The last idea is like a splash of ice water, sending an uneasy flash down his back, provoking an almost claustrophobic feeling the first options didn’t.

Thankfully, she purses her lips like she doesn’t much like the thought either. “But I think that might not be optimal for putting my arms around you, so I’d rather try one of the other ways first.” Warmth rises inside him, wiping away the traces of cold prickling along his spine.

He quickly agrees that not tying him up in a package sounds better to him, too, drawing reassurance from how much she wants this to be something that gets them closer. It’s not about having control over him, it’s about creating a space with fewer variables for her to consider, so she feels safe to try new things. Things he wants just as much.

“Also, you’re good with knots because of the boating.” She juts her chin into the direction of that picture from Lake Shasta on his dresser, Ash Tyler on his boat, grinning for his mother behind the holo-cam. “So I thought you might know what kind of knot would work best. And maybe you could tie them yourself, so I just have to pull them tight. Or you could show me how to tie them.”

The uncharacteristic rush of words betrays her nerves. It’s sweet, how she tries to do this right. She so clearly wants to include him and his expertise, get his input. He’s pretty sure her research put an emphasis on the importance of communication and collaboration, and she’s trying very earnestly to do that justice. Thing is, it’s a valid point. It does make him feel more at ease, makes him feel like an active participant in this … _experiment_.

Figuring everything out takes some time: what should they use as a rope, which knots will work best? Not just for tying him up, but for her untying him later, when he won’t have a clear view of what she’s doing, when he can’t guide her fingers. There’s definitely a learning curve and some awkwardness, but they’re laughing, too, and that makes it better.

Once he’s tied down, they promptly have to untie him again when they realize he’s no longer able to take off his shirt. They agree it’s useful practice either way.

Finally, he’s lying down on the bed in just his workout pants – no shirt, no socks – his arms stretched out over his head and tied down. Michael is standing next to him and, for the third time, makes sure that she can push two fingers between his wrists and the rope before she finally straightens and looks down at him, looking over her handiwork.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” she asks, some nervousness palatable in her tone.

Her care, her reluctance, lessens his anxiety, assures him that the fizzing nerves in the pit of his stomach are a sign of excitement, not dread.

It makes him feel a certain measure of control over the situation, too, in spite of being physically restrained. Even with the reins firmly in her hands, Michael wants his reassurance, needs him to put her mind at ease. She wouldn’t do anything without checking in first.

“How about you sit down on the chair?” Ash offers when she can’t seem to decide what to do next. Out of habit, he tries to underscore his words with a gesture, but when the rope pulls tight, he makes a conscious effort to relax his arm. “Just to get used to the situation.”

She frowns. “But we wouldn’t have needed to do,” she waves somewhere above his head, “all that, if I’m just going to sit there.”

Efficiency first, like always, he thinks fondly.

“Just see it as a trial run. Now we know where what goes, which ties to use, how to get me comfortable.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “That free hands are essential for taking off shirts.”

She presses her fingertips to her forehead like she’s still embarrassed about that, but she’s laughing.

“Many important learnings,” he adds before nodding in the direction of the chair.

“So.” He makes his voice extra casual. “How was your day?”

Michael’s shaking her head but does walk over to the chair. Instead of sitting down, however, she picks it up and carries it closer to him.

“I hope you’re okay with not being admired from afar,” she teases as she sits down right next to him, close enough to touch his waist if she wanted to.

“I’ll allow it,” he says with exaggerated generosity.

“My day was entirely uneventful, I’m afraid.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. “Save for the part where I got to tie up this guy I like.”

\--

Three days later, Michael is sitting down beside him, re-checking the bindings, diligently sliding two fingers between the rope and his skin, wiggling a little. It’s different with her seated right next to him instead of standing over the bed. The close proximity changes his awareness of her body, and he can feel the dip in the mattress where she weighs it down.

“Seems good to me,” she says, giving a final tug before sliding her fingers back out. “Are you comfortable?”

“I’m fine,” he says, both endeared and exasperated. “Just like last time, just like two minutes ago.”

“I appreciate that you’re doing this with me,” she says, her fingers hovering over the sensitive skin right beneath his wrist, the softness in her voice and her touch indicative of the care she takes with him. “And I want to do it right.”

They’ve been getting better and better at communicating their feelings and desires outright, and it might feel a little weird sometimes, but it’s nice, too. Ash always knew that he can be a bit of a talker, but the way it affects him when Michael expresses herself like that still took him by surprise. Even a small thing like voicing her appreciation for him has the potential to light a spark, turn him on.

She leans over his torso to check the bindings on the other side, making the mattress shift, getting so close that the fabric of her shirt whispers against his chest. Her fingers slide under the rope right where his blood is beating closest to the surface of his skin, and he can feel her exhale against the curve of his naked shoulder.

His breath hitches, and his fingers flex with how much he wants to touch her.

She turns to look up at him, enough movement for her breasts to press and slide against where his heart is.

“Everything okay?” she asks, her fingers still snug against his wrist beneath the rope.

“I’m good.” It comes out husky.

Perhaps it’s the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips or perhaps the size of his pupils gives him away, but one corner of Michael’s mouth curls like she understands exactly the effect her proximity has on him.

“Good,” she says and leans in to kiss him, slow, leisurely, her fingers still pressed against his pulse point, her body close enough that he can feel her breathe.

It’s strange to kiss her like this. Ash doesn’t think he was fully aware of how much he touches her face and neck when they do this, how used he is to enclosing her in his arms, guiding their position. The experience is new, exciting and slightly unsettling. He strains into the kiss, tries to deepen it – _assert dominance?_ he wonders briefly – but she pulls away with a laugh, trailing her fingers against the sensitive inside of his arm, past the crook of his elbow.

“Your skin is so soft,” she says quietly, looking at her own hand as it slides closer and closer to his neck, where his eyes can’t follow, where he has to rely on sensation alone, until she traces the first of three small bumps on his shoulder, “even the scars.”

He breathes out through his nose, his skin alight beneath her fingers.

Her hand stills, and she looks at him. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I want you to.”

She traces many of his scars that night, careful, almost reverent. It reminds him that she’s the first person to do it, makes him aware of his own vulnerability, but before that awareness can swell into tension, the tenderness of her touch soothes him.

“Still good?” she asks, pointing up at his wrists. “Any tingling or numbness?”

Her commitment to his continued comfort and well-being makes him laugh. “No adverse effects, I promise,” he says. “If I feel anything change, I’ll alert you first thing, doctor.”

She gives him a fond look and turns away, reaching down besides the bed where he can’t see. It takes him a moment to realize she’s taking off her shoes.

Swinging her legs up onto the mattress, she wiggles her feet. “I took my socks off,” she says. “I heard some people find that more attractive.”

He snorts a laugh as she stretches out next to him, putting her cheek on his chest and winding her arm around his waist, much like she does when she sleeps over. The additional contact of skin on skin, however, makes it feel different, almost electrifying.

Not being able to touch her in return is a different matter. He’s used to making a cocoon around her when she’s molded against him like this, keeping out the rest of the world, but now he remains exposed, spread out to the space around them, her body the one thing that’s shielding him.

The unfamiliar experience threatens to put him on edge, make him fidget, but he concentrates on Michael instead, on the rise and fall of her chest and the heat where she’s pressed against his skin, until those feelings recede, until all that’s left is contentment in her embrace.

They stay like that for a long while, quiet and calm. Her breathing evening out into a deep rhythm that carries him closer and closer to sleep, makes his eyes droop, even as he finds himself unable to close them all the way.

Her head turns and she presses a kiss to his sternum, soft with a hint of wetness, before she lifts herself off of him, eyes bleary, her features slowly pulling into a mellow smile.

“I almost fell asleep,” she mumbles in a voice that gives away how close to sleep she actually was.

She rubs at her eyes and wrinkles her nose in a way that’s improbably cute, her speech slurring as she says, “’s better to untie you before we go to sleep.”

A few minutes later, after they’ve both changed and brushed their teeth, Michael crawls into bed beside him, snuggling in close and sliding her hand all the way beneath his shirt, her palm a warm, reassuring brand on his stomach.

\--

They don’t tie him up every night they’re alone after that, but when they do, their make-outs become more and more heated, Michael’s hands roaming across his skin, turning him on, her lips exploring lower and lower each time until she finally kisses past his navel, looking up at him like she’s asking for permission, before her head moves even lower and she nestles the side of her face against his fly, sighing softly as she presses her cheek against the ridge of his hard-on. He’s not sure it’s strictly possible, but he’d swear he can feel the humidity of her exhale through his pants and underwear, and he hears himself groan, deep and low, hips pushing forward, soles of his feet sliding up to gain purchase, arms straining against the rope, his every instinct to touch her, increase contact any way he can.

Belatedly, he worries that it might be too much, too aggressive, wonders if he should have agreed to having his ankles tied down, too, but then he feels Michael’s head move, a pretty moan parting her lips over the line of his cock inside his pants. The visual is incendiary: Michael kneeling between his spread legs, eyes closed and mouth open around the shape of him. It sends a jolt through his system, makes his balls squeeze and his hips buck up. Her eyes open into lazy slits and she smiles, pleased, like she loves his reaction, loves what she’s doing to him. Her head moves further down, hands trailing behind, holding on to his hipbones, and she buries her face in his crotch, right at the juncture of his thighs, breathing him in.

It’s hotter than it has any right to be, and he moans, loud and helpless, arching up, pulling at the ropes around his wrists, the decisive press of her palms keeping his lower body flat against the mattress.

She holds him in place and tilts her head up, her smile languid, almost lewd. “The way you smell …” she trails off, rolling her eyes at herself with a crooked smile, her expression turning incongruously sweet, teeth digging into her lower lip. Michael’s become much more vocal, expressive, especially once she realized the effect it has on him, but sometimes, she still seems surprised, embarrassed even, by her own boldness.

This time he needs to know, though, needs to hear where this sentence will go, so he raises his eyebrows, prompting her with an open-ended, “Yeah,” that comes out husky.

In an unforeseen move, she crawls up his body, coming to lie half on top of him, one leg intertwined with his, head propped up on one elbow so she can look down at his face.

“Objectively,” she says, voice mischievous, “apple pie and roses smell better.”

Her statement makes him laugh, and he looks at her out of one eye, lip curling in an incredulous expression.

She huddles in close, nose pressing into the crook of his stretched-out arm as she takes a deep breath. It’s unexpected and quirky and intimate, and it makes him feel … accepted, maybe, in a fundamental way.

Her subsequent giggle tickles against the sensitive skin of his ribcage, and he loves that he gets to see this side of her, the side that’s a little odd and playful, a side she won’t show to anyone else.

Pulling back, Michael’s mouth curves into a wicked little smile and she adds, “Subjectively, however, I can’t get enough.”

That startles a laugh out of him, but she quickly takes it away with a kiss.

When she eventually puts some space between them, he nudges her nose with his and says, “It’s a strange compliment, but I’ll take it.”

She slides on top of him until she straddles his waist and takes his face in both hands.

“Good call,” she murmurs, kissing all air out of his lungs before he has a chance to reply.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update: I've added some scenes to the second half of this fic to improve pacing, which his why it's not fully posted yet and why I upped the number of chapters from 11 to 12.
> 
> I've also signed up for the Star Trek Femslash Big Bang and will prioritize that for the next two weeks, so I can produce a proper first draft of Uhura/Gaila goodness for my artist to work with.
> 
> Enjoy and see you soon! As always, I love and appreciate comments.

“Tackle, Michael, for fuck’s sake,” Tilly yells.

Michael lunges at her, taking Tilly to the ground right as the buzzer goes off. The thump of their bodies as they hit the floor sounds painful, but it can’t be that bad because both burst out laughing, collapsing on top of one another.

“Tackle valid,” Detmer declares. “Free throw science.”

Ash jogs over to where Michael and Tilly are still lying on the floor, giggling like kids. He offers each of them a hand and pulls them up.

They throw him brief smiles and huff out _thanks_ before Michael turns towards Tilly and asks, “You do know we’re on different teams, right?”

She’s out of breath and sweaty, but she’s smiling widely, and it’s the best thing. Well, okay, it would be even better if they had a realistic shot at winning, but Ash’ll take it.

“You’re still my friend,” Tilly wheezes, her face flushed. “You deserve a few more points.” As the top scorer, she can afford to be generous. Who would have thought that Sylvia Tilly was such a quad ball fiend?

“Charming,” Michael says with that perfectly deadpan expression she has and moves into position. Ash wishes he wasn’t still out because of that foul ball, otherwise he could cover Latimer, take some of the pressure off of Michael.

It’s a long shot either way, more than halfway across the field, their team down one player. Then again, precision is definitely Michael’s strong suit, even if the odds were always stacked in team ops’s favor. Their players are stronger, faster and more motivated.

As they should be, with three security officers on their team, Ash thinks. Regular drills, weapons training, expanded exercise regime: all built-in advantages for the game.

Michael crouches down, arms angled, and jumps up in a powerful movement, sending the ball into a perfect curve so high none of their opponents can get to it. The shot is so flawlessly calibrated the ball doesn’t even touch the hoop when it goes through.

 _Damn_ , that was beautiful.

Looking at her perfect execution reminds Ash of what he misses about his old job: the sheer physicality of it, the point where muscle memory takes over and actions become automatic, almost instinctual.

Their teammates clap and Chen, who’s closest, high-fives Michael. She’s positively gleaming she’s so proud.

“Three points science,” Detmer announces. “Tie-breaker. Advantage science.”

Ash shakes his head in disbelief. After struggling through this game from round one, they now have a shot at thwarting what seemed like a done deal for ops.

Detmer waves him back onto the field, and he takes his place for scrimmage, wishing the rules gave them a few seconds to huddle so they could talk strategy. A tie-breaker means sudden death, so they only have one shot.

Detmer shouts, “Go,” and everyone rushes forward.

Miraculously, Ash manages to get hold of the ball. He immediately passes it on to Chen, running up the field to get himself in position to score. All they need is a single point.

Instead of passing, Chen keeps the ball close to his chest, scanning the field.

Ops is closing in, surrounding him.

Ash’s body is a wound-up coil ready to snap. This is not the time to try and optimize your play, he thinks. This is the time to “Pass,” Ash hears himself yell. “Anywhere! Just pass.”

It’s too late. Tilly gets possession of the ball, and immediately hands it onto Rhys from between her damn legs. Not graceful, but effective.

Ash tries to run and block them, but he’s too far away. Rhys has already passed onto Bryce, who surges forward and makes a two-point throw. There’s too much spin, and Ash’s eyes are rivetted as the ball hurdles off-course … but still crosses the two-point line.

 _Game over._ Bryce’s teammates cheer him on, hollering his name, and Ash groans.

Detmer officially announces operations’ win of this round and thus the game, and there’s much whooping and clapping, Tilly leading a quick chant of “O-P-S, O-P-S” in celebration of their win. Less than a year ago, that would have been Ash’s team, his people.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Michael sidles up to him. “I don’t know if she realizes that, technically, we’re both command,” she says, and it makes him snort.

She has a point, but not really. Tilly and Michael were the only command crew showing up tonight, so they were assigned to opposing teams, making Tilly a full-fledged winner.

“I’m afraid you’re not getting out of losing on a technicality,” Ash tells Michael with a brief hug.

In the spirit of good sportsmanship, both teams line up and congratulated each other before hitting the showers, agreeing to meet up in the rec room right after.

Before they’ve so much as finished the first round of drinks, Michael’s already stifled two yawns. The third is as good a reason as any to call it a night.

“Sorry.” Michael shrugs apologetically as they get up. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep these past few days.”

“Oh right, they’re on a different rest cycle on Seelat V, I almost forgot,” Tilly replies, also getting up. “Serves you right for going on super important diplomatic missions without me.”

She gives both of them a hug. “You take care of her,” she tells Ash.

“See you tomorrow, Michael.” She pats Michael’s arm. “Looking forward to the debrief.”

Tilly slides back onto Rhy’s lap and waves another goodbye along with the rest of the group.

Right outside, Michael tries to suppress another yawn. Ash knew she came to the gym almost straight from her mission, but he hadn’t realized she’d been this tired.

“You really didn’t get a lot of sleep, huh?” he asks as he pulls her closer.

“Five hours every twenty hours isn’t ideal.” She blinks at him. “Although Saru dealt with it a lot better than I did.”

“You should have said. We could have skipped the game.”

“No, no,” she protests. “It was good. I was sitting at a conference table for three days straight. I was glad to get the exercise in.”

Ash gives her a doubtful look as they enter his quarters.

“It was fun,” she insists, “even if I wasn’t much of an asset.”

“Nonsense,” he kisses her nose, “that final free throw was absolute perfection.”

Her eyebrows arch skeptically. “Our opponent had to _remind me_ to tackle her.”

Her blunt self-assessment makes him chuckle. “Our opponent is your best friend,” he counters. “Also, you were the only team member who didn’t attend Starfleet academy. There was always a quad ball game going on out on the lawn. It’s like all of us went to quad ball bootcamp, only you missed out.”

She hums. “Vulcans don’t really do team sports,” she concedes. Looking up at him, she adds, “But I think I’m getting better at it.” Her last words get swallowed up in another yawn, which only drives home that she needs to go to sleep.

Ash walks over to his dresser to get her some sleeping clothes, and Michael takes them with a smile, holding on to his hands as she does. “I’m sorry I’m not up for anything else tonight.”

“No worries.” He presses his lips to the side of her head. “I could use an early night, too. I didn’t sleep that well either.”

It’s not a lie. While he’s clearly more well-rested than she is, his quality of sleep seems to dip the farther away she is from him. It was true on Bolac Minor and it’s been true these past few days.

Michael smiles at him gratefully, cups his jaw and gives him a soft, lingering kiss.

“Tomorrow,” she promises.

\--

The next morning, Ash feels himself drifting out of sleep slowly, leisurely.

He’s always glad to wake up before the computer’s relentless alarm, prefers to find his way back to wakefulness in his own time instead of getting his eyes shocked open by the ship’s harsh standard beeping.

Today, however, there’s something different about his gradual ascent to consciousness, like his mind was dipped into molasses, but in a good way.

He’s in his bed, on his side, and there’s this welcoming warmth behind him he just wants to burrow into, wants to lie back against as his thoughts wander wherever they may. He wiggles his shoulders into that solid softness and takes a slow breath, a familiar scent filling his nostrils.

Michael’s smell, the swell of Michael’s breasts against his back through the fabric of their shirts. Michael’s arm around his waist, and her mouth at the nape of his neck. Usually when she sleeps over, he wakes up on his back with her head by his shoulder, but this morning, he’s spooned against her, the weight of her palm resting on his abdomen.

“Morning,” she murmurs and tightens the warm band of her embrace, increasing the tempting pressure of her body against his.

“Good morning,” he mumbles in return, his eyes fluttering open, but not all the way yet.

She seems to be in no hurry either, her breathing deep and steady against his skin, her hand rubbing lazy circles against his belly through his shirt, making a tingly warm spread out through his body, making him acutely aware of his early-morning hard-on.

Eventually, her fingers find their way under the fabric, playing at the line of hair below his navel as she starts moving against him in an easy rhythm, delicious friction making his ass push back and retreat, only to do it over again, his dick starting to throb heavy against his leg.

He stretches his back, sighing, and she kisses the tendons in his neck, quick and dry at first, but soon opening her mouth, tongue darting out to taste him, soft suckles drawing his skin against the edge of her teeth, a low thrum of electricity radiating out, causing him to shudder and shift, trying to make room for his erection in pants that feel much too tight.

She slings her leg over his thigh, rubbing against him in counterpoint. His skin prickles, heat roiling in his gut. When she moans, the sound is muffled by his throat, reverberates through his neck.

Her fingers slip lower, between his pajama pants and underwear, soft rub across the fabric atop the crown of his cock. He wants this, has dreamed of it. Of Michael’s capable small hand feeling out the shape of his hard-on. Of Michael finding just the right way to touch him and give him pleasure.

Tension builds inside him, narrowing down to one point in his groin, making his hips pull back against her lap without pushing forth again, almost like he tries to withdraw from her touch as she keeps rutting against him, as she keeps making these small, needy sounds that turn him on beyond reason.

There’s so much going on inside his mind, so much confused excitement buzzing under his skin. He can’t really make sense of any of it. This is Michael, he reminds himself, this is what he’s hoped for. And yet, some part of him is unsure, hesitates, wants to recoil from this unseen hand beneath the sheets, this unknown quantity; is suspicious of the ways she might choose to touch him.

He should be thrilled she’s exploring his body and rubbing against him like this, that she’s come to feel comfortable enough to show her interest so openly, but the situation feels too unpredictable, unknowable, and the fact that he can’t see her, doesn’t know what she’ll do next, gives rise to unease.

She whimpers, a bitten-back sound that feels piercing nonetheless. Michael whimpers, he reminds himself. Beautiful, willful Michael Burnham, who’s sharing his bed, who wants to know his body, make him come, who makes these beautiful sounds when she touches him; delicious, cut-off little moans close to the shell of his ear, her hand straying further down the length of his dick, mapping his hot flesh through his underwear.

Everything prickles and fizzles, and it should be all pleasure, but there’s an unbidden sense of apprehension, like he doesn’t quite fit inside his own skin. He feels his erection starting to fade, not going away, but softening, his mouth drying up like cotton, his body’s movements suspended, like he’s waiting for something, anticipating something, dreading it.

But that makes no sense. He should be thrusting into the perfect cup of her fingers, rub his ass against the heat at the apex of her thighs, should show her how hot this is, how amazing it is to have her touch him this way.

She seems to catch on to his unexpected reaction, his sudden impassivity, and her pelvis stops moving, her hand pulling away, removing itself from inside his pajama pants.

“Everything okay?” she asks, concerned with a hint of guilt, like she might have overstepped. He hates that he’s the one who put that tone in her voice.

Ash turns around swiftly, making them lie face-to-face, and it elicits a surprised yelp from her.

“Everything’s great,” he assures her with a small peck on her cheek. “I just,” he makes an exaggerated frown as he pushes himself off of the bed, “I just really need to pee.”

He’s already standing, gesticulating at her with one hand. “I’m so sorry,” he adds with what he hopes is a charming smile. “Hold that thought, though.”

She laughs, surprised but good-natured, shaking her head as he bolts towards the bathroom.

“Be right back,” he calls out as he shuts the door behind himself.

Just as he’s finishing up, the alarm starts blaring.

Ash is a little disappointed, but not nearly as much as he probably should be.

\--

A few nights later, Michael has him tied up again, and after her customary check of the ropes, she smirks at him, a glint in her eyes.

“I thought we could try something new,” she says, and before he can so much as reply, she quickly pulls her shirt off, letting it fall to the ground.

His breath hitches. She’s wearing a utilitarian white bra, material so thin that the dark peaks of her breasts shine through, and her slacks hang low enough for him to catch a glimpse of her underwear.

The soft swell of muscles in her upper arms, her waist sloping out into the delicious curve of her hips, the way her navel moves with how she’s breathing – he loves everything he sees, can hardly believe he gets to look at her like this again.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. It’s as true as it feels inadequate.

Her eyes find his for a second, then cut away. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

Sitting down next to him, she stretches her hand out towards his jaw; slow, experimental. He melts into the touch, something like a hum catching in his throat when she bends forward to kiss him. It’s tentative at first, a succession of quick, barely-there presses of her mouth on his, pulling back whenever he tries to move in, get closer; waiting for him to lean back before she returns, teasing him with butterfly kisses, small licks of her tongue, making his lips tingle and his heartbeat quicken.

Ash feels his body arch, tries to keep himself from straining towards her, not give her any reason to pull away again, and she seems to understand the effort, seems to like it, laughing into his mouth.

“You’re so good,” she murmurs, praising him like she’s been doing more and more, like she knows he likes. “So good.”

Her hand comes to rest on his ribs, forearm pressing against his stomach, skin on skin, and the knowledge that she’s only wearing a bra makes everything hotter, sends a charge along his spine, gets him hard inside his pants.

She rakes her other hand through his hair to reposition his head, and he catches her scent, knows it radiates from the heat of her pulse, from that incredibly soft spot he loves to caress. Playfully, her teeth close around his lower lip, prying his mouth open, sucking gently before she dives in, licking into his mouth for a long, deep kiss. Her body follows, presses in, her chest moving against his until he can feel the hard pebbles of her nipples through her bra; until he moans, deep and low, and his hips buck up.

She whimpers, and he wants to drink the sound from her mouth, swallow it down, his whole body drawn to her, striving to get closer, feel more of her, his arms pulling at the ropes around his wrists, their mouths fused together, hot and wet and greedy.

When she falls back into a sitting position, it’s ridiculous how acutely he feels the loss of contact, how his instinctive frustration with being bound spikes before conscious thought sets in and he lets himself drop back against the mattress.

She runs a hand over her forehead and hair, and he notices the sheen of sweat on her face, becomes aware of the perspiration that has sprung up on his own skin.

“So that was,” she smiles, almost sheepish, “intense.”

“Yeah,” he says and his voice comes out rough, hungry.

“I think I’d rather put the shirt back on. For now.” There’s a mildly apologetic cadence to her voice, but it’s nowhere near the frustrated annoyance of a few months ago, and when she pulls her shirt over her head, she’s smiling.

And sure, he’d love to make out more, feel the weight of her whole body on top of his, the heat of her belly against his skin as they breathe together, but in the long run, he knows this is better. It’s trust. Progress.

She moves towards him, and he assumes it’s to untie his wrists, but instead she twists, lifts her leg and straddles his stomach, the bottom of her slacks brushing against where he’s still half-hard in his pants, one of her hands curving around his shoulder, the other around his ribs.

She dips down to nudge his nose with hers. “I’d still like to make out, though.”

When she kisses him, open-mouthed and thorough, he’s sure he can taste the smile on her lips.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back. Sorry for the wait, but I really wanted to get this right.
> 
> Mentions of war and related trauma.
> 
> (An earlier upload of this chapter had an additional scene that's now part of chapter 11.)

Ash and Tian are working on the last batch of settings for the breeding chamber and incubators, adjusting humidity and balancing radiation levels for optimal growth conditions when Nichy and Neil barge in through the door, apparently done for the day with their part of the group project.

“Are you guys finishing up?” Nichy calls out.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe,” Ash replies.

“Told you the interface here is a nightmare,” Neil says and taps his finger against Tian’s workstation.

“Yeah,” Tian shoots him a look, “ _after_ you’d called dibs on the other lab.”

“True,” Neil admits with a mostly believable contrite smile.

“How about you help me with these sample release modifications to make up for that?”

Neil’s face brightens. “Only fair, I guess.”

Ash swivels around in his chair and points at Nichy. “If you have any idea why I can’t regulate radiation levels independently for these samples, feel free to help me out.”

“Always up for being a hero,” Nichy replies in that Rigelian drawl of hers and saunters over to Ash’s workstation. She’s way ahead of the curve in the MLSTP and it would probably be more annoying if she weren’t always up for helping her classmates.

Ten minutes later, the four of them have sorted out all pressing issues, at least for tonight. The assignment is supposed to run in the background throughout the program, and depending on which of their hypotheses hold true, they’ll be monitoring and working with these samples for weeks or even months longer.

Ash gets up and stretches. He’s been bent over consoles and sample trays all day, and the muscles in his neck aren’t too happy about that. Going for a run or doing some tai chi would probably do him good, but he’s not really feeling it.

“Mess hall?” Neil asks, and sure, that sounds good, too.

Soon, they’re drinking ale and sharing snacks as they talk about the training program in general and their project in particular. In the back of his mind, Ash can’t help thinking that he’s quieter than he used to be, not as cheerful and animated, even though he got lucky with his team. A few of their classmates are hyper-competitive, but their group has a collaborative vibe going that suits him better, allows him to open up and feel more like himself, more part of the team every day. Right now, the alcohol also helps.

When they’ve emptied the second pitcher, Nichy goes to get some more. She returns with the ale and an ominous vial of green liquid.

“Now that everyone is slightly intoxicated,” she says as she pops open the vial, “you’re ready for the next level.”

She refills everyone’s drink and pours a few drops of green syrup on top of her own glass. The syrup instantly forms a surface like green glass on top of the amber ale. After a few seconds, it abruptly sinks to the bottom of the glass, leaving a slew of bubbles in its wake. When the bubbles disappear, the drink has turned red.

“Voilà!” Nichy raises the glass. “A pint of blood.”

Skeptical glances are traded around the table, and Neil reflexively puts his hand over his glass. “That doesn’t look safe,” he says.

Nichy smirks and takes a gulp so big it leaves a red stain around her mouth. She smacks her lips and rubs across them with the back of her hand. “It’s delicious.”

She nods in Ash’s direction – “Tyler, you try it,” – and shoves her glass into his hand.

Before he can think too much about it, he takes a large drink. There’s the bitterness of the ale, but it’s undercut by something fresh and sweet, but with a pleasant tartness.

Ash takes another drink, swishing the mixture around in his mouth, before he declares, “I like it.”

Nichy slaps him on the shoulder. “I knew you had taste.”

After his endorsement, the other two each take a sip from Nichy’s glass and nod their approval.

“So, what is this stuff?” Tian asks. “Please tell me it’s not actual blood,” she adds in a theatrical whisper.

Nichy laughs. “Naw,” she draws out the one word with a twinkle in her eye. “It’s sap from the arula tree on Tellar Prime. I worked on a Tellarite freighter for a while. They put this stuff on everything.”

“Amazing that it’s even in the replicator database,” Neil says, shaking his head. “On the Yemoja we had a single food replicator to supplement the kitchen’s offerings when we ran low on supplies, and all that thing could make was nutrition cubes.”

That makes all of them laugh. In space, you get used to nutrition cubes fast, but Ash isn’t sure he’s seen anyone eat them here. Discovery is so far ahead of the rest of the fleet in terms of technology and quality of life, and after a while, you simply start taking it for granted.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding along with everyone, “same on the Yaeger.”

The smile on his face freezes, and he takes a quick sip from his ale to hide his expression, hoping that nobody noticed. He hasn’t talked, hasn’t even thought about the Yaeger in a long time. It seems like a different life, almost unreal; like everything else before-

He doesn’t want to dwell on it.

“Wait,” Neil asks, his forehead creasing as he looks at Ash, “the Yaeger?”

Like the Europa, the Shenzhou and the other ships that were lost in the Battle of the Binary Stars, the Yaeger has attained a tragic kind of fame, and the war is fresh enough in everyone’s mind that the name alone sparks a certain solemnity.

Ash doesn’t want to talk about the Yaeger – or the war. Outside of official reports and debriefings, he hasn’t really talked about it with anyone but Michael, but the subject’s been niggling in the back of his mind, especially since he decided to join the science training program.

The thing about being stationed on Discovery is that most of the crew know bits and pieces of what happened with him. Very few people know the whole truth, but Starfleet’s cover story was well circulated aboard, so nobody ever asked him for details.

It has felt like a burden sometimes, anchoring him to a version of himself he’d rather forget, but working with people who transferred specifically for the MLSTP made Ash realize that it’s been an advantage, too, a reprieve. It meant he never had to lie, never had to sell the official version of the story.

Maybe, though, it’s time to try out how it feels to say it out loud, see how he can make the party line fit with his own perspective, find out how it will affect the way these people see him. They’re supposed to learn and work together for two more years. They deserve to know.

Ash squares his shoulders. “I was on the Yaeger when the war started.” His voice sounds slightly off-pitch in his own ears, and although his eyes are trained on the table in front of him, he can sense the sympathetic looks from the others.

“Which means I got captured the very first day.” His mouth twists into something that’s uncomfortably close to a smile. “It all happened so fast, I never even got the chance to fight them. Went straight to prison aboard a Klingon ship and stayed there for seven months.” Ash has this weird impulse to make light of the memory, make a tasteless joke, but he manages to control it.

Tian pats his arm. “You don’t have to talk about it,” she says quietly and Ash appreciates the reassurance, even as he has to squash the impulse to pull away from her touch.

“No,” Ash shakes his head. “I want to-“ The words stick in his throat. “You should know. You deserve to make up your own mind.”

 _Now comes the hard part_ , he thinks.

“Before the war, the Klingons had developed a new way to brainwash people. One they hoped would fool Starfleet’s standard scans and protocols, including the Manchurian Test.” He manages to keep his voice level, almost neutral, as he tells the lie he swore to tell. “I was the test case.”

Ash wants to be defiant, face his colleagues’ stares head-on, but he can’t seem to focus on anything but his tightly clasped hands on top of the table.

“I’m so sorry,” Neil says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I didn’t mean to-“

“I know.” Ash shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He finally succeeds in making himself look up, and when his eyes find Neil’s, he sees a mixture of compassion and guilt there. “It’s better you know.” Ash can’t seem to hold his classmate’s gaze.

“Anyway, the procedure worked. When I was rescued and came aboard Discovery, all tests came back consistent with,” he says the next words too fast, so he can’t think or stop, “someone who had been subjected to torture.” There’s that weird almost-smile again, and it feels so wrong he wants to scrub it off his face with force. His tongue curls and swells in his mouth like he’s about to throw up, but Ash keeps going.

“I had no idea what had really happened. I didn’t realize I wasn’t myself anymore.” It feels like a lie, and maybe it is. He presses his lips together. “When the Klingons tried to activate me, it didn’t work. Something went wrong. The procedure didn’t take, not fully. They couldn’t just flip the switch.” So many sentences and they all say the same. It’s like his mind is stuck in a groove, like his thoughts don’t want to follow the story he’s trying to tell.

Ash digs the fingernail of his thumb into the flesh of his index finger, and the sting of pain pushes him on.

“Instead, I had blackouts, started losing time.” The muscles in his arms and legs contract, and his toes inside his boots curl into claws. “And I didn’t follow protocol. I didn’t report the episodes and ask for help like I should have.” That’s the thing he can’t come to terms with. He knew _something_ wasn’t right. Whatever else is true, he knew that much. That’s why he went to sickbay to get himself checked out, that’s why … He can’t go there, he can’t think about that, too, not right now.

And then there was Michael, of course. Michael, who he convinced not to report him. Michael, whose affection and trust he used to make her complicit in hiding his state of mind.

Ash puts all the strength he has left into his next words, tries to make them come out calm, collected, so the others won’t hear the fault lines where his voice wants to crack. “I wound up hurting two members of the crew before they found out something was wrong with me.”

He hopes they won’t ask for details, hopes nobody will ever ask. He can’t tell the truth about Culber, can’t tell the truth about Michael either.

_I killed a good person who tried to help me, but I was lucky it didn’t stick. I almost killed my partner, too, but we’re together now, so that doesn’t really count either._

This time, it’s not a smile, it’s a laugh – sharp, hysterical – that tries to explode is his stomach, that he tamps down so all that escapes is a huff.

“They were able to cut the link between the implanted Klingon knowledge and my neural identity.” This is the part they made him rehearse over and over, and it comes out by rote. Pressure builds behind his forehead, but he can’t stop now. “I can still access some of the information, and,” the laugh won’t be suppressed this time, comes out high and thread-like, coloring his next words, “I can still speak Klingon, which is why I was sent to Qo’noS for a few months to help with negotiations between Starfleet and the Empire in preparation of the peace treaty.”

Everyone is quiet.

Ash has no idea what he expects to happen. Rationally, he knows that no one would come right out and tell him they can’t trust him anymore, but there’s this space inside him, like a vacuum, waiting, demanding to be filled, to suck in the air around him and make everything different. It’s such a big truth wrapped in a patchwork of small lies. Things can’t possibly be the same after this.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Nichy says and briefly pats his forearm. It’s this completely unexpected thing.

“I’ve got friends who didn’t make it.” Her eyes are shining, all of her usual swagger gone. “I’ve got a brother who made it out, but the war still got to him. He resigned his commission. Can’t even stand the thought of being out in space again.”

The other two nod, and it doesn’t just feel like sympathy, it feels like recognition; an acknowledgement of mutual losses. The atmosphere is solemn, and Ash is glad there’s not a lot of traffic in the mess hall at this hour, that it feels like a private, confidential space. A confessional.

As he takes in and processes what is said, it’s like a shutter opens, dilates, like he has been so focused on a specific detail that he missed the larger picture. Yes, his situation is unique in many ways, but there are parts of it that feel universal; at least at this table, on this ship. Most of the crew have seen battle, all of them have seen loss.

The war went on for two years, how could it have been any other way?

It’s both reassuring and anticlimactic.

Somehow, Ash had convinced himself that even the simplified, watered-down version of events his superiors authorized would change how people relate to him. That the brainwashing and deception and Klingon knowledge still embedded in his brain would be too much, would set him apart.

He hadn’t realized how this war has warped everyone else’s sense of self, too. Hearing them speak, voices straining to stay strong and steady, trying to give brief, factual accounts of what must have been harrowing, traumatizing; there’s this feeling of deep empathy and of … connection.

Their reasons and experiences may be different, but there are parallels, similarities, that are shining through, like this sense of uncertainty Neil is talking about: not being entirely sure of how to fit into this new, post-war world.

It’s disorienting to feel connected by the very thing that almost broke him; to find that surviving this war is something that binds them together, something they share. A strange feeling descends upon him, one he can’t quite name. It’s jumbled and jagged, but a thread of comfort runs through it, too.

Tian is the last to share their story; the way she tells it just as concise as her contributions in class. Two days before the Battle of the Binary Stars, she was doing routine repair work on her ship’s hull when she got hit by a freak wave phenomenon. They managed to put her in stasis and sent her to the nearest medical center just in time, but the extensive treatments and rehabilitation regimen meant she wasn’t cleared for duty until a few weeks after the initial ceasefire.

“Starfleet might be the only job where getting blasted with an almost lethal dose of exotic matter and taking two damn years to recover makes me a lucky bastard.” Tian rolls her eyes and laughs, and objectively, it’s not a great joke, but it does break the tension, giving everyone a reason to laugh with her.

They change the subject soon after, and it’s like a collective exhale. It was good to have this talk, maybe even cathartic, but now everyone around the table seems exhausted.

Ash gets the feeling no one wants to end the night on such a downbeat note, so they drink and talk a while longer, even though the conversation feels clumsy, like they’re re-finding their footing on lighter ground.

About half an hour later, they call it a night, everyone trying a little too hard to say goodbye in a friendly, jovial way. Ash appreciates the effort, is glad that it doesn’t feel like it’s just him for once.

Walking along the corridor, he feels drained and over-charged at the same time; tired in a mostly good way, but much too twitchy to have any hope of going to sleep. Maybe he should go for that run after all, he thinks, as he finds himself lingering at the junction to Michael’s quarters.

It isn’t that late; he could just drop by. They’re together, it’s allowed.

When the door opens, Tilly is there, her smile turning sympathetic as soon as she takes in the sight of him.

“You look like shit,” she says and gives him a hug.

Her blunt assessment surprises a small laugh out of him. “Thank you, Tilly.”

She pulls a glittery white coat from the closet behind him and says, “Actually, I was just about to leave.” She directs a meaningful look at Michael. “I won’t be back until morning.”

Squeezing his arm, she adds a quieter “Feel better,” and waves at Michael on her way out the door.

Ash ventures into the room, noticing the in-progress game of chess on the table Michael has just gotten up from. He points at the board. “She wasn’t really about to leave, was she?”

“No.” Michael wraps her arms around him. “But she’s right,” she says into the crook of his neck, “you look exhausted.”

He’s strangely relieved that Michael follows Tilly’s lead, that there’s no room for him to try and pretend everything’s fine, that he can just let himself be held for a minute.

When she lets go, Michael immediately leads him towards her bed, sits him down and gets some water.

Ash takes a drink, smiling when he realizes something: “You’re always watching out for my fluid intake. I appreciate it.”

Michael laughs quietly. “Vulcan is an arid planet.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Providing something to drink is one of the few socially accepted ways of showing affection.”

There’s a wistfulness in her smile, turning almost timid as she looks up at him, and it warms him from inside like it always does when she shares one of these small, incidental facts with him, like she wants him to know her beyond the now, wants him to understand how she came to be who she is.

Ash puts the glass away and pulls her into an embrace. Soon, the words come, a natural extension of how he wants to share himself with her, too; talking to her helping him make sense of everything like it always does.

They’re lying on her bed together, voices quiet, Michael’s hand stroking his head and neck in a soothing, repetitive pattern.

It’s good to be with her like this, feel her warmth, hear her voice; the nervous tension in his body and dull pressure in his skull draining away until all that’s left is a feeling of contentment and belonging.

When Ash wakes up hours later, he finds himself lying next to the wall, Michael so close that they fit quite easily inside her twin bed.

He rearranges the bedsheets and extricates himself from her sleep-heavy arms when he realizes that she must have taken off his boots and socks and even his uniform jacket to make him more comfortable, all without disturbing his sleep. A deep fondness wells up inside of him, and he gently strokes the side of her face with two fingers.

As soon as he returns from the bathroom, Ash carefully slips back into bed behind Michael, quickly falling asleep as Michael snuggles closer.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter was initially posted as part of chapter 10.
> 
> Miraculously, this story keeps growing, so I upped the total number of chapters to 14, although it might end up with 15, I'm not sure yet.  
> Thanks to everyone who read and left kudos, and especially to those who commented. I know and understand that a lot of things can get in the way of leaving a comment, so I really appreciate it when readers make the effort ♥

Work, friends and even an unannounced ship-wide security drill all get in the way of their time together, leaving them with quick lunches, stolen moments between shifts and a short hour alone here and there. Enough for heated kisses and a frantic clothed session or two, but not the time and space they need to make progress on their new project, find out where their experimentation could go.

For the first time in two weeks, Michael manages to finish up work around the same time as Ash, and, miraculously, both of them have the weekend off. They agree to shower off the stress of the week, then meet in Ash’s quarters for dinner.

Michael’s developed quite an appetite for spicy foods, so he decides to replicate some Asian cuisine. 

“I really like these dumplings,” she says, her chopsticks pointing at the array of small bowls on the table between them.

“Owo’s recommendation,” Ash replies, pleased to have found something new she enjoys. “They’re meant to be eaten as snacks, but, personally, I think they’re too good to just have one at a time.” 

Ash pops some roasted broccoli into his mouth for variety, already eyeing his next bao. In spite of the undeniable deliciousness, he tries to pace himself. This is their first evening alone together in a long while, and he doesn’t want to be too full to explore all options.

Michael seems to be having similar ideas, clearing off their plates with plenty of food left over and replicating two glasses of wine. 

They sit down on the couch and talk, digesting the food and complaining about the new data safety regulations that have caused both of them a lot of headache and extra work. At least they’re not alone in their frustration. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard Linus swear before,” Michael says. “I was surprised to find out the Saurian language even has swear words.”

That makes Ash laugh. “Maybe he looked some up in Standard for the occasion. With the universal translator enabled, you never know.” Shaking his head, he adds, “At least this mess provides a ship-wide bonding opportunity. Something everybody on board can agree on.” 

She raises her glass, “Hear, hear,” and they both take a drink. 

“I just want this transition to be over.” She sighs. “Or at least not think about any of it for the next 48 hours.” She closes her eyes briefly, and Ash takes the opportunity to lean forward, taking her glass out of her hand and putting it on the table next to his.

“I might be able to help with that,” he murmurs, his mouth only an inch away from hers. 

Her hands slide around his neck and she pulls him in for a slow, wine-warm kiss. “I had a feeling you might.” 

They keep kissing for a while, lazy and drawn out, their hands roaming across arms and shirts and necks, but no further, like they’ve both decided to savor the fact that they have all night, that they have all day tomorrow, too, if that’s what they decide.

When Michael finally moves away, eyes dark and lips parted, she gives him a sly smile. “I’d like to tie you up again,” she says. “Is that okay?” 

Ash won’t pretend he hasn’t been waiting for her to bring it up, retrieving the soft bathrobe belts they use as rope from the space between the armrest and sofa cushion, where he stashed them earlier.

Michael raises one eyebrow in that way she has, like she both approves of his foresight and makes a note of his obvious enthusiasm. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she teases with a tone like she’s indulging him, and it makes the fire in his belly flare. Her next kiss is quick and dirty, distracting him from the fact that she’s taking the ropes out of his hands. 

Soon he’s tied up. No shirt, no socks, just his underwear and slacks between his skin and the amazing woman in front of him. He wonders if she’ll take her top off again; if, maybe, she’ll take her bra off, too. The mere thought makes his pulse speed up.

Even though Ash is the one lying on his back, Michael somehow manages to look up at him through her lashes. “Is this okay?” she asks as she bends down to grab the waistband of his slacks on both sides. 

He nods, too eager, quickly lifting his hips to help her get his pants off. She discards them carelessly, standing tall at the foot of his bed, gaze traveling his body, catching on his burgeoning erection clearly visible through his underwear.

He feels exposed, on display, and it sends snaps and crackles along his nerve endings, all synapses firing, the tension between them rising with every second. 

“Talk to me,” he says, and it comes out rough. He needs to hear her voice, hear her thoughts, needs to know he has her approval. 

She smiles, slow and full of promise. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Her words make heat rise up in his chest, spread towards his throat and face in what must be a fierce blush. 

Sitting down beside him, Michael’s fingers trail along his side in languid curly-cues, delaying their descent, making him anticipate it more. “You’re always so warm,” she murmurs, “like a kiln.” She reaches the waistband of his underwear and traces its edge.

Ash suppresses a moan, pushes his ass back into the mattress to keep from thrust towards her. The flat of her hand rubs across his stomach beneath his navel, so close to his straining cock. “I can feel your pulse,” she says as if it’s this beautiful, unexpected discovery, and then leans forward to give him a careful, lingering kiss. “Everything about you feels good,” she says against his lips, and a high sound catches in his throat.

Michael moves on top of him, her knees bracketing his waist. If only she let herself fall back, he could feel the swell of her ass and the heat of her sex right through her clothes and his underwear. 

Instead, she takes off her shirt, unhurried, deliberate, her body stretching and moving above him, his eyes roving over her, unable to focus on just one thing. She’s so close, enthralling, irresistible. 

“One more thing,” she says, voice low. He loves that voice, loves that he’s the only one who gets to hear her sound like this.

“Computer,” the sudden change in tone throws him for a loop, “turn off lights.” 

The room is plunged into darkness. For a moment, Ash feels disoriented.

The body on top of him shifts. He can feel its presence, can feel the way the mattress dips with the changing distribution of weight.

Soft lips press against his temple, close to his ear. “I thought this could be fun,” she murmurs, _Michael_ murmurs. “Help me be a little … bolder.” In the unseen expanse of his quarters, her voice is an anchor.

There’s more shifting and a soft rustling sound as she does something he can’t see. Ash feels electric charges skip along his skin, restless anticipation building. She could do anything right about now. He can’t see, has no idea, doesn’t know what _bolder_ is even supposed to mean.

He breathes in, feels his ribcage expand, painfully aware of the tension in his shoulders, his stomach. His body is so exposed, he realizes. Bound. Helpless. 

Her knees against his waist move until she’s straddling his hips, and the quality of the air above him changes, like a blanket descending upon him, no physical contact yet, but already trapping heat, an almost stifling sensation. There’s an unexpected symmetric touch, palms cupping both sides of his shoulders, and then she lowers herself down, softness against his chest turning into a warm press until her weight is on him, all against his body.

With a groan he realizes that he can feel the hot swell of her breasts skin-on-skin, that she must have taken off her bra before she came to lie on top of him. It’s like she yanked on a cord, all his muscles contracting at once.

“I thought you might like that,” she murmurs into his ear, kissing the whorl of it, feeling it out with her tongue. 

Her touch, her smell, her weight, everything is amplified by the darkness of the room, by the lack of visual input. It’s an onslaught of sensory information, pulling at the strings that seem to reside inside his bones, making his toes curl, his fingers grasp uselessly at the air, bound by soft yet unforgiving rope. Her position on top of him effectively blocks the movement of his unbound legs, too, keeping him in place, at the mercy of her touch. 

She rolls her pelvis experimentally, for now at least, the round of her ass rubbing lightly against his cock, throbbing thick inside his underwear. He keens like an animal, and she chuckles into the crook of his neck, letting her hips roll again, a more insistent movement this time.

There’s too much heat between their bodies, in his groin, too much strain in his muscles, his heart beating too loud, skin bursting out in a sweat. She kisses his jaw, kisses down his throat, her hands still on his shoulders. 

“You taste salty,” she whispers, licking along his collarbone, and it’s Michael, he knows it is. He knows her voice, knows her warmth, knows that she keeps talking for him, because she knows it turns him on. And it’s hot, her tasting him, on top of him, grinding into him. His cock is painfully hard, straining towards her, his hips rolling in time with hers.

The experience should be nothing but sensual, pure pleasure, and yet something else twists inside his belly, tension coiling tight, nerves jangling restlessly, desire taking a darker turn.

His senses are always heightened, sharper, when he’s with her like this, as if his body and mind want to take note of everything, don’t miss a single detail, but today, even that awareness seems too much, anxious and unnatural. 

She bears down hard, moaning against his collarbone, and the sound travels through her, ripples out along the surface of his skin as her breasts press in close, letting him feel the nubs of her nipples against his chest. He groans in return, loud yet powerless, and there should be nothing but red-hot bliss, dreams and desires coming true, having her body close again in this way, but something is off, feels wrong, sounds wrong.

His own breath is too heavy, his blood pounds too loudly in his veins, sweat won’t stop gathering in the crook of his legs and elbows, in the hollow of his throat, all over his skin. Too much, excessive. _Too much, too much, too much._

She grinds down, stills at the apex of the movement, maximum pressure, and her fingernails dig into his shoulders just as teeth drag against his pulse; not a bite, but close.

It’s like a reverse explosion, his body going into lockdown, every muscle contracting.

“Computer, lights,” he manages to choke out.

His quarters flood with light. Ash wants to shield his eyes, but the ropes around his wrists won’t let him. His lids squeeze shut against the brightness, but not all the way. Right now he can’t bear the idea of renewed darkness. His heart is a trapped creature inside his chest, panicked, irrational, the veins in his neck throbbing painfully, like they’re about to burst.

As his eyes adjust, as the familiar surroundings of his quarters come back into focus, his heart rate starts slowing down, as does his breathing. It takes Ash a moment to process, but then he recognizes a figure at the foot of his bed. There’s an impulse to hide, his body trying to curl in on and protect itself, but just as the sharp tug of his bindings reminds him he can’t, he realizes that it’s Michael. _Of course._ Who else would it be?

She’s perched on the edge of his chair with her shirt back on, looking at him with alert concern. His panic recedes, but a subdued trembling remains, the hot-cold tackiness of his skin making him feel like it doesn’t quite belong to him.

Michael doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, her expression carefully neutral, and he realizes that she’s giving him time, giving him space to find his bearings. Beneath the confused discomfort, he feels his deep fondness for her well up, assert itself.

Once his breath has evened out, she speaks. “Is it okay if I untie you?” She gestures at his hands above his head, slowly, like she tries not to spook him. He nods and she gets up, measured steps, unhurried, standing where he can see her as her deft fingers undo the bindings.

Crouching down, she grabs at something on the floor – his shirt and slacks – and puts them on the foot of the bed before stepping back, sitting down in his chair, getting them on eye level again.

He shakes out his arms, suppresses the irrational impulse to turn away and picks up his shirt instead, tugging it over his head and yanking his pants back on. He’s glad to have something to do, something to focus on for a few more moments, a reason not to be looking at her.

Finally, he sits, stills, makes himself look in her direction without being able to quite look at her face. Part of him wants to send her away, ponders excuses, wants to say that he has an early day tomorrow, that he’s tired, exhausted, but after what she’s just witnessed, that seems absurd. Delay tactics at best.

He owes her the truth. “I needed to see you,” is all he can say right this moment and his voice comes out thin, but willful, too, determined. He’s glad for it. Anything is better than broken.

She nods. “But it’s more than that, right?” It’s not a question.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

She leans forward as if on instinct, her big eyes filled with compassion, and he gets the feeling she wants to reach out and touch him, but refrains. “Don’t be,” she says. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

He shakes his head. “No, never. You did nothing wrong. It’s just that …” He swallows, tries again. “On the Ship of the Dead, when they interrogated me, tested me, when they operated on me-” He can’t finish the sentence, doesn’t even know what he’d want to say if he could find the words.

Michael looks so small all of a sudden, sunken in. “I should have thought of that.” Clasping and unclasping her hands, she adds, “not just with the lights, with everything. Tying you up when I knew you’d been a prisoner on that ship.” She shakes her head, her distress visible, palpable.

He scoots over, close enough to reach for her hand and take it. “No,” he says, his voice steadier than he’d have expected. “Michael, you asked me. Every step of the way, you asked me. And I agreed. Up until-” He twirls his hand, grasping for the right words, but he can’t find them. “I was- _enthusiastic,_ about everything.” His throat, his mouth, everything is too dry, but he soldiers on.

“I just,” he tries to settle his thoughts, to hone in on what changed, what made this thing inside him snap. “I think I just … need to know what to expect, I guess.” That’s not all of it, but it’s not a lie. It’s him getting closer to the truth. “I need a,” he grinds his teeth, continues, “a measure of control. Over the situation, I mean.”

Ash wishes he weren’t speaking so clumsily, that he could explain himself better.

“I need to know it’s you,” he blurts out. His eyes start burning, swimming. “I just need to be sure it’s you.”

Michael rubs his hand, slightly awkward, but comforting, her warmth seeping into him.

“As long as I can see you, I’m good.”

“Still,” she sighs, deep and aching, “I didn’t even notice, or,” she tilts her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “No,” she corrects herself, “I did notice. I felt the additional tension, the acceleration in your breathing, but I didn’t understand what it meant. I thought it was,” she shrugs helplessly, “good.”

“It was,” he says, too loud in his quiet quarters. “It’s always good with you.” He needs her to know that. “And it was hot, too, having you so close. Just.” He’s fumbling for words, scrabbling to make sense of what happened for himself. “I didn’t realize what was going on until it was too late. I was so turned on, but then those thoughts kept creeping in, and I got all mixed up.” His voice climbs higher, agitation creeping in. “I wanted to focus on you, but I couldn’t see you, and that made it hard. But I could still smell you and feel you and that should be enough, right? I should have been able to push through, breathe through it, and get back to enjoying myself. And then you did that thing, you know, where you grabbed at me with your nails and grazed me with your teeth and … it’s hot, I want you to do that again sometime.” He smiles at her and it feels crooked on his face. “But it was so unexpected. I wasn’t prepared, I had no frame for it, and I just- I couldn’t-” The words rush out without filter, explaining, apologizing, desperate to make her understand that it’s not about her.

“It’s … arousal and fear, they’re so close together sometimes, it’s hard to tell them apart.” Ash breaths out loudly, heavy and exhausted. “Until it’s too late.”

He looks up and finds Michael’s eyes, makes himself meet her earnest gaze, something in her expression telling him that, miraculously, she might understand.

“Can I sit next to you?” she asks, squeezing his hand.

“I’d like that,” he says, moving up to sit with his back against the headboard, patting the space next to himself. She smiles, warm, relieved, and comes to sit next to him, legs outstretched, hands folded in her lap. They’re not quite touching, but he can feel the presence of her body. Without restraints, with the lights on and his full mobility restored, that presence feels soothing again, exerts its usual magnetism. It feels good to give in, lean against her shoulder, and she exhales, like she’s been holding her breath.

Eventually, her arm starts sliding around his back, cautious and gentle, and Ash curls towards her until she’s cradling his head against her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, “for telling me, for explaining.” Her palm strokes from his temple to his neck to his arm – _back and forth, back and forth_ – lulling him into a renewed sense of security, of comfort.

“Sorry for killing the mood,” he finally says, and it comes out more serious than intended.

Michael’s hold around him tightens for a moment, a reassurance. “You didn’t kill the mood.”

He looks down at himself, careful to make his voice lighter this time. “I’m pretty sure I did.”

She turns, looking straight at him. “The mood is not dead,” she decrees.

He raises his eyebrows and the way his mouth purses feels almost normal. “You’re sure about that?”

She tilts her chin like she’s considering the question. “So you might have knocked it out cold,” she concedes. “But the mood will be fine,” she adds with a shrug.

Her response makes him chuckle, shake his head.

“Believe me,” she says, “next time, the mood will be good as new.” Michael kisses his forehead, her hand stroking his hair back. “I promise.”

After a while, she adds, “In a weird way, I’m almost glad.” There's a sudden tension in her body, and she finds his eyes. “Not that you had a panic attack, of course.” She uses the word like it’s no big deal, like that’s something that happens to people, and Ash realizes that’s probably a healthy way to look at it. “But just-” she hesitates, searches for the right words, “that you have issues, too, that it’s not just you putting up with me.”

Before he can object, she adds, “I know that’s not how you see it. I’ve known for a long time, even believed it for most of it.” She gives a quiet laugh. “But I want to be here for you, too. It’s … another thread that binds us. That we both have our issues, but we’re trying. That we get better. Together.”

As he moves to embrace her and touch their foreheads together, Ash can’t help but agree.


	12. Chapter 12

Michael doesn’t mention the ropes again, and at first, he’s grateful. The experience drained him, got at something Ash’s mind had kept closely under wraps, hidden even from himself, and it’s like he needs some time for the debris of the experience to be washed away by everyday life.

The thought of being tied up, not being able to use his arms and hands, however, still holds some appeal. Memories of their previous sessions rise in his mind sometimes when he’s lying in bed alone, or when he and Michael make out more heavily. He enjoyed her eyes on his body; her hands, too. And even the memory of the last time, of her naked body on top of him, the press of her breasts and texture of her skin against his, everything strangely amplified in the dark, turns him on, arousal infused with an uneasy feeling of … _fear? guilt?_ that twists at him, gives the idea an air of the forbidden that’s exciting in and of itself.

The original object lessons seem to be off the table as well, but their clothed sessions change when Michael gradually starts exploring under his shirt, hands tentative at first, quickly gaining confidence as she figures him out, as she applies the lessons she learned when he was tied down, until her palms roam his belly and his entire back, rucking up his shirt as they kiss, as she whispers in his ear. She encourages him to reciprocate, breathing deep when he spans the width of her ribcage with his hands, letting the heat of her body settle beneath his palms; moaning as he traces each vertebra with his fingers, breath hitching when he reaches the clasp of her bra.

Eventually, Ash decides to bring up the ropes. There’s a flash of apprehension on her face, in her voice, but not nearly as much as he expected, and her smile when she agrees is tinged with a hint of excitement.

It’s been his call this entire time, Ash realizes. Michael’s left it to him if and when to go there again, trusting his judgement, and the awareness of this fact gives him the confidence to truly pick up where they left off. So once his shirt and socks are on the floor, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. “Is it okay if I take these off?”

Her mouth opens as she makes a noise of assent, of anticipation, and he quickly discards his pants before stretching out before her on the bed in only his underwear.

“You know we can stop at any time, any time at all,” she says as she ties him up, her touch on his wrist sending a low-voltage current through his bloodstream.

“I know.” He nods and pulls at the bindings, finding that there’s too much give. “Come on now,” he teases. “You can do better than this.”

She complies, then quickly does a two-fingered check and raises her familiar sardonic eyebrow. “Better?”

He gives another tug and grins. “Much better.”

Sitting down next to him, she strokes the softness of his belly, fingertips tracing a winding pattern before moving up to his chest, an area she has yet to explore without ropes, movements slowing down, dragging heavy heat across his skin.

Michael’s tongue darts out to lick the pad of her thumb and she rubs it over his nipple, an easy slide. The muscles in his chest clench and he inhales sharply, dissolving into a moan as she keeps rubbing. With an impish smile, she leans down to close her mouth around his nipple and sucks.

A groan reverberates through his body, and his voice isn’t entirely steady when he says, “Not wasting time, are you?”

She looks up at him without really moving, her breath hot against his spit-slick skin. “You want me to stop?” The glint in her eye is evidence she already knows the answer.

“Please don’t.” They’ve barely begun, but there’s already a begging note in his voice.

Her mouth presses back down and she swirls her tongue until she elicits another needy sound from him. Then she pulls away.

“Hey,” he protests weakly, confused by the change of pace.

She smiles, sly as a cat, and stands up. “I want to try something,” she announces and takes off her slacks without ceremony.

His teeth dig into his lower lip as he takes in the sight. Part of her blue panties are visible beneath the hem of her shirt, and as his gaze slides down, there’s nothing but beautiful skin: the ample curve or her hip, the long lines of her legs. Hell, even her knees are pretty.

“It’s the least I can do,” she says, voice low, eyes roving over his body, “when I get to see you like this.” She quickly straddles his stomach, dipping down to kiss him, eager slides of wet tongues, her hands on his shoulders pinning him down. Feeling the heat between her legs against his stomach, her weight on top of him, further charges the experience, makes him more alert, more aware of her taste, her smell, the sound of her breathing, of his own sweat springing up everywhere.

“Michael,” he moans into her mouth, helpless and turned on, and it’s like a signal for her to start moving on top of him, rolling her hips, grazing the head of his dick with the curve of her amazing ass, getting him from half-hard to fully erect. After all this time, those two thin layers of underwear between them feel flimsy, tokens of resistance instead of full-fledged barriers. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

She scoots down, more weight, more pressure on his cock, and snakes one hand between them, cupping him through his briefs.

“You get hard so fast,” she says, breathless, delighted. “Like you’re always ready for me.” Her words turn him on more, and he knows she says them out loud for him. Knowing she does because he gets off on hearing her voice, on being both praised and teased by her, only makes it better.

He tries to mumble a confirmation and kiss her at the same time, open-mouthed and hungry. She seems to like that, too, because her hand slides down even lower, fondling his balls, just a little, but enough to make his hips buck, thrust into her touch.

She grinds down onto her hand around his cock, strong thighs pressing into his sides, and he can feel himself leaking inside his underwear, hot and wet, so riled up already.

And then she pulls away to stand up on her knees. Instinctively, he tries to chase her mouth with his, but the restraints won’t let him. Before he has fully made sense of the situation, her weight is back, her mouth is back, and he realizes that she must have parted her pussy inside her underwear before she pressed back in because, fuck, he can feel her heat and her softness around his cock through the fabric.

A ripple goes through him, _up-up-up_ , every single fiber of his body needing to get closer to her. “Fuck, Michael,” he grunts, an undignified, primal noise.

Her legs lock him down in the best way, her hips moving in deep circles, her breath hitching, high and needy. Her whole body is ebbing and flowing on top of him, salty-wet kisses, the hot press of her breasts through her shirt and bra, and that pulsing fire in his groin, about to swallow him whole.

His skin is burning up, sweaty, and he writhes and arches, strains against the ropes, using them as leverage to push up with more force, meet her on the downstroke, make her moan, again and again and again, until she tucks her face into the damp crook of his neck, panting hot air against the forceful beat of his pulse. 

Michael grips his shoulders tight and her hands travel along his arms, sliding across his sweat-slick skin, all the way to his wrists and past the bindings, until her small palm rests inside his and she braids their fingers together. Her hips push down hard, fast and focused, and her hands clench around his like a prayer as she comes, calling out, cries muffled only by his skin.

His whole body contracts, heart pumping, blood rushing, and with a succession of shouts, his climax washes over him in a white-out.

When his senses return, Ash feels Michael wriggle on top of him, getting more comfortable, disentangling their hands so she can prop herself up on his chest with one arm and look at him, face flushed, glowing.

“Wow,” she says, eyes half-lidded and voice drowsy. Absently, her fingers play with the hairs on his chest, a welcome caress.

“Yeah.” He breathes the word more than he says it. The smile on his face feels loose and goofy and remains long after she’s untied him and they’ve gone to sleep.

\--

Ash’s life on Discovery continues to settle into an ever-more familiar groove. The science division is less flashy than flying, but it’s challenging, too, and a lot of their work is bound to make a difference one day. 

He’s barely six months into the training program, but it feels years away from when he first returned to Discovery as a regular crewmember. Nominally, he’d still been in operations, had still worn the bronze badge, but they’d kept loaning him out to other divisions for short-term work, rotating between projects.

Being a student again feels odd sometimes, but the MLSTP is much more specific and focused than studying at the academy, and Ash enjoys the variety of methods, that they get to apply what they learn not just in educational labs, but in their ongoing group project with the samples he helped collect on Bolac Minor.

He and Neil are combing through their data for a quick in-class update when they notice that some numbers are off from what they’d expect.

“It’s probably just a fluke, right?” Neil asks, pointing at the visualization. It doesn’t seem like that to Ash, but then again, the deviations occur in some ancillary values their group’s only tracking to test the new spectrometer’s full range. As far as their instructors are concerned, they shouldn’t even be collecting that data.

For a moment, Ash wants to agree with Neil and move on, not waste their time. Just because he can’t make sense of the outputs right now doesn’t mean there’s anything to it.

But then he remembers something Michael said when they discussed him enrolling in the program. “Stamets has very good cause to dislike you socially,” she had pointed out, straightforward as always. “So it stands to reason that your work on Bolac Minor impressed him enough to outweigh the fact that you joining the program means he’d have to regularly engage with you at work.” Her words had been oddly reassuring then and have the same effect on him now.

Ash takes a breath and pulls up last week’s logs. “Let’s go back a few days, see if we can find a pattern.”

While some variant sequences seem to follow a rhythm, they can’t seem to identify an overall structure, so they ask Nichy and Tian to take a look. When they can’t come up with a cause either, a weight lifts off of Ash’s chest. Nichy is the most experienced in their group, probably the whole class. If she can’t figure it out, it’s not about a lack of insight or knowledge on his part.

Eventually, they decide to ask Jalloh and Stamets.

Both their supervisors seem stumped, too, and – after they’ve ruled out equipment failure and measurement errors – quite excited about the fact. Jalloh explicitly commends them for the expanded monitoring parameters, and it adds to the sense of pride Ash has developed about their team.

Once they go on a deep dive into the data together, it draws one of Stamets’ rare smiles.

“This is the fun part, people,” he says brightly. “The data always makes sense. If it doesn’t, that means there’s something we don’t know,” he stabs the air with his finger, “yet. That’s when the exploration begins, where new discoveries happen.”

It’s surprisingly inspirational.

Equipped with new input, their work group goes back to exploring the issue alone. Tian’s background in materials science proves to be especially valuable once Jalloh points out that they should treat the metal sediments in their samples as soft solids with flow properties, but after some initial progress, they hit another roadblock.

When they try and discuss it with Stamets, he barley spares them a glance and advises them to look for outside help. “I’m busy.”

“Actually,” Nichy says, waving her padd, “I cross-referenced the crew’s qualification profiles and found three crewmembers with highly relevant expertise.”

“Good thinking,” Stamets replies, then makes a shooing gesture and tells them, “Go on, go away. Set up a meeting.”

As they hurry to leave, he adds, “And leave me and Jalloh out of it. You can get us up to speed once you figure it out.”

His mouth doesn’t smile, but somehow, his eyes do, and Ash has learned that this is one way Stamets shows his trust, how he says, “I know you’ve got this.”

\--

Later that evening, Ash is meeting Michael and some friends for dinner in the mess hall.

Owo just got back from shore leave with her partner and brought back a basket of colorful fruit and beautifully knotted puff pastries, so they’re all set for dessert.

After their meal, Michael is leaning back in her chair, focused on meticulously disassembling one of the intricate pastries. “I’ve been approached about a consultation,” she says in a casual tone.

“A consultation? On what?” Tilly mumbles around a mouthful of bubble berries.

“Consultation? Makes it sound like a medical thing,” Detmer adds.

“No,” Michael shakes her head, “it’s about quantum-level effects of radiation on a new type of spore-based material with metal-like properties.”

Ash sits up straight so fast his chair makes a weird, creaking noise. “ _What_?” He has the sudden urge to strangle Nichy, although he couldn’t fully articulate why. “You’re one of our experts?”

“So you really didn’t know?” Michael inclines her head, clearly amused.

“Wait, what?” Tilly and Owo chime in almost in unison.

“We’re investigating samples from Bolac Minor in the science training program,” Ash explains, “and my group’s hit a wall, so Stamets advised us to get help from experts on the ship.”

“Oh, and of course,” Tilly claps a hand on Michael’s shoulder, “Michael Burnham, certified overachiever, made the cut,” she surmises correctly.

“Seems like it,” Ash says with an eyeroll that has nothing to do with his present company. “Nichy handled the selection and set up the meeting, but somehow, she forgot to tell me she invited Michael.” He thinks on it. “That’s probably why she sent the reservation for the room without a participant list.”

“In other words,” Owo shoots a meaningful look across the table. “You just ruined the surprise, Burnham.”

“Damn,” Michael says, and it comes out without heat. “If she’d let me in on it, I would have protected the secret with my life.”

Ash feels himself chuckle.

“Seriously, though,” Tilly says. “What did she think? That you guys don’t talk?” She pops another handful of berries into her mouth.

“Maybe she thought they had better things to do than talk,” Owo quips with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

“That’s the thing about no-distance relationships,” Detmer responds with a wry expression. “They have the time to communicate verbally when they’re alone together, not hole themselves up in a room as soon as they have a few days off.”

Owo bursts out laughing. “Yeah, true, probably.”

“Well,” Michael gestures at the significantly diminished contents of the basket. “At least you took some time to go grocery shopping.”

Owo looks like she’s trying to suppress a big grin. “To be honest,” she bats her eyelashes, “I bought this stuff while waiting for my transport after Lena’s shuttle had already left.”

The admission makes everyone laugh. Joann’s not the type to complain, but they all know how hard long-distance relationships can be.

“We lived off soup, coffee and fruit juice the first two days because that’s all the old-school replicator at our cottage was set up for.” 

She rolls her eyes in self-deprecation, but the warm glow of her smile reveals what a fond memory it already is.

\--

Two days later, Ash’s work group is meeting with Michael, Dr. Pollard and Commander T’praak, who’s only recently transferred from the USS Husain.

Ash is a little self-conscious about presenting his part, but he’s hopefully covering it well enough. It’s not just the two experts he doesn’t really know, it’s Michael, too, if he’s honest. When they worked together before, their professional dynamics had been different, but now he’s a student, even if it’s in an advanced program, while she’s not just a superior officer, but an expert.

Once the group has outlined their findings and the issues they’ve been facing, a lively discussion gets going, considerably widening the scope of their subject, which is one of the advantages of getting new eyes on their problem, Ash supposes.

Right now, Tian, Dr. Pollard and Michael are leading the conversation, everyone else taking a backseat. It’s nice to see Michael in her element again, and for it to be about scientific inquiry instead of potentially life-threatening forces. No Klingon War, no Control, no Red Angel. Just figuring things out for the science of it, possible applications and real-world implications far in the back of their minds as they share insights from different areas of expertise.

Michael is in the process of explaining a possible test set-up, modifying research from her time at the Vulcan Science Academy, and everyone is nodding along and making suggestions, excited about the possibilities.

Ash has mostly been listening for the last twenty minutes or so, but when Michael and T’praak sketch out an experimental framework for one of Discovery’s low-gravity labs, he uses the time to review the underlying calculations on his workstation.

The math doesn’t seem to add up.

If they retrofit and calibrate the field generators according to Michael’s specifications, they shouldn’t be able to excite growth in the order of magnitude required.

Ash confirms the variables and tries again. The results are still off.

Perhaps he’s made a mistake. If there’s an error, surely Pollard or T’praak or even Nichy would have pointed it out by now.

They’re moving on from the general test outline, starting a list of materials and components they need, and Ash decides he has to speak up.

“Uh, sorry,” he says, raising his hand apologetically. “Maybe I’m missing something, but if we run with these modifications, will the trigger load really be high enough for the kind of growth rates we need?”

He swipes his own calculations onto the central interface.

Michael frowns. So do Dr. Pollard and his fellow group members. Only T’praak’s face stays impassive.

Michael reaches out into the projection to rearrange some numbers and check his constants. She nods, slow at first, then more vigorous. “Of course,” she says, almost to herself. “You’re right,” she adds in a louder voice.

Ash takes a breath, relieved that he didn’t make a fool of himself in front of everybody. As he breathes out, he realizes something else. _If he’s right, that means she was wrong._

“We have to adjust these calculations to compensate for the difference in field resonance and the deviations caused by the two Vulcan moons.” Michael’s voice is steady as she explains the problem, and her fingers are already flying over the interface to update the model.

Nichy gives Ash a subtle thumbs-up, and Dr. Pollard looks at him with a smile.

“Good catch,” she says. Ash smiles back awkwardly.

He tries to find Michael’s gaze, but she’s too focused on the task at hand to notice.


	13. Chapter 13

Ash runs, runs, runs, his arm with the racket high above his head, his whole body hurtling towards where he needs to go. Drag from the net is putting additional strain on his wrist and his shirt sticks to his chest, over-heated skin slick with sweat that’s threatening to spill from his lips and brows, about to get into his eyes.

He only took up crosse a few months ago – trying to round out his training to compensate for the more sedentary lifestyle of a science student compared to a security guy – and today, with sweat streaming down his back and his eyes tracking the movements of several players at once, he’s especially glad he did. It’s a fast game with a strategic component, leaving little room to mull over the meeting earlier and how he called out Michael’s oversight. Instead he’s tightly focused and always on guard, even as he pushes his body to the limit.

The whistle sounds, and it takes Ash a few moments to stop running, slowing down until he comes to a halt right where Nichy is waiting with a big smirk on her face. She’s significantly less sweaty than him and while he’s practically wheezing, she barely even seems out of breath. This woman’s a machine. He’s lucky they’re on the same team.

“Good game, Tyler.” She pats his back, jovial and a little too hard.

“Thanks,” he has to gulp in more air, “likewise,” and wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

“See you in fifteen!”

She doesn’t give him a chance to reply before jogging off, sending a mock salute his way. 

Coming out for drinks tonight wasn’t really part of his plan, but it might not be a bad idea. Michael and Tilly should still be playing tennis anyway, so even if Michael wants to come over tonight, it won’t be until late.

Now that the game’s over, his thoughts are drifting back to the meeting. Rationally, Ash knows he didn’t do anything wrong, but he might have handled the situation better. Too bad Michael had been called to the bridge a few minutes after he’d pointed out her mistake, otherwise they could have checked in after wrap-up instead of her hurrying off with a quick general goodbye.

On his way through the corridors, Ash finds himself turning towards a side panel. He could always use the ship’s computer to check if Michael’s still on the tennis court. 

_No_ , he tells himself and keeps walking.

Maybe he should instruct the system to alert him once she’s done.

 _Not excessive at all._ He rolls his eyes at himself.

As soon as he’s in his quarters, Ash yanks off his clothes and steps into the shower, hanging his head and hunching his shoulders to let the hot water beat down on the overworked muscles in his neck and back, streaming into his hair until it’s wet and clinging to his forehead, falling into his eyes. 

He grabs the soap and starts lathering up, and as he’s scrubbing away, his thoughts return to Michael. Maybe he should have handled his objection differently.

 _Did he mess up?_

They’ve come such a long way, but that doesn’t mean Ash wants to leave behind the lessons from what happened before. Yes, he was used and manipulated, too, but that doesn’t negate the fact that his own bad calls hurt her, almost cost Michael her life. He doesn’t want to do anything that’d make her think he doesn’t trust her judgement.

Wiping the remaining suds from his hair. Ash turns off the shower. After the hot water, the air in the bathroom seems cool against his skin, and he quickly towels off and gets dressed. 

The others are expecting him, better not keep them waiting.

\--

Despite Nichy and Rhy trying to recruit him for an impromptu darts tournament, Ash leaves the rec room after two glasses of ale – one with arula tree syrup – and decides to drop by Michael’s place.

Her door chimes, but no one answers. Maybe she and Tilly went out for drinks, too. Or maybe she’s avoiding him. 

_Stop it_ , he tells himself.

In his quarters, he toes off his shoes and stretches out on the couch to read. Owo has gotten him into Andorian _demis_ – fast-paced adventure stories of 5,000 words or less – and Ash likes that he can usually finish them in one sitting. Tonight he has trouble concentrating, though, his slightly ale-addled thoughts wandering back to Michael and the meeting. He feels like he upset a balance in their relationship.

Maybe he should have waited, pulled her aside later. Or maybe he should have sent his calculations to the station in front of Michael instead of calling her out in front of the group.

It’s been over a year since Ash returned to Discovery, and he’s gotten better at speaking his mind, asserting himself again, both in a professional and private setting. Doubting Michael with other people around didn’t sit right, though, like he doesn’t respect her expertise, like he doesn’t have her back.

He rubs at his nose, an old habit. To be fair, Michael didn’t seem to have a problem with him calling out her mistake, so he should probably stop obsessing about it. She didn’t love it, sure, but who would?

As he taps the padd to turn the page, Ash realizes that he has no idea where he’s at in his story. Are the characters still swashbuckling through underground forests or is this another flashback to the arctic research station? 

Sighing, he goes back one page, then two, until he finds the last line he actually recognizes.

Just as he’s caught up with the flashback, his door whooshes open. 

_Michael_ , he thinks before he even looks up. He’s updated his quarter’s security protocols to let her in without chime or delay a few months ago.

A sense of relief makes his shoulders relax as he watches her come in, still in her white tennis outfit, a towel around her neck and an exhausted expression on her gleaming face.

“Hey,” she says, bending down to kiss his cheek. Before he can reach up to touch her, she’s turning to walk further into the room. “We had to recalibrate the bridge’s entire sensor system because of a quasar,” she explains over her shoulder, “so my shift ran over, and then Owo and Detmer all but destroyed Tilly and me on the court.” The following huff is somewhere between annoyed and impressed. “They’re on a new training routine, and it’s working a little too well.” She laughs, dabbing at her forehead with one end of her towel. “Most intense workout I had in a while.”

Taking a shirt and pants from his dresser, she says, “I’ll shower real quick,” pointing at the bathroom door as she’s walking. “And then I’ll need to eat something. I’m starving.”

A while later, they’re both sprawled out on the couch, Michael’s feet planted in his lap, a bowl of oatmeal balanced on her stomach.

“You replicate excellent oatmeal.” She licks her spoon clean and puts the empty bowl onto the table.

“It’s the bubble berries,” he says as his thumbs continue pushing circles into the arch of her foot. “The replicated ones aren’t as good as those Owo brought from her trip, but I like how the tartness cuts through the honey flavor of the database recipe.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, “it’s good.” Her hand stretches out to touch his arm. “And I clearly should have complained about sore feet earlier.” She tips her chin at her feet in his lap. “You’re really good at this, too.” He figured as much from the sounds she’s making whenever he relieves more tension in her muscles and tendons, but it’s still nice to hear her say it.

Ash switches feet for the second time and starts with firm strokes along the sole of Michael’s left foot. “Food replication _and_ foot rubs. I’m a man of many talents.”

“Don’t forget,” she lifts her finger, then pauses before adding, “field resonance adjustments,” excitedly stabbing the air for emphasis with every word.

For a moment, his hands still, but there’s no hint of criticism in her tone, only a twinkle in her eye. Ash resumes the massage and shoots her a lopsided smile in lieu of a reply.

“I was impressed you picked up on the problem with updating the premises so quickly.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s a warmth in it that’s just for him.

“Thanks.” He could leave it at that, but something makes him take a breath and add, “Sorry I didn’t send the info to your work console instead of bringing it up in front of the others.”

“Nonsense.” Her face scrunches up in confusion, and it makes her look younger. “I wasn’t even checking the console.” She sits up and puts her hands over his, so they’re both holding on to her left foot. From a distance it might look awkward, but he appreciates the gesture. “That’s why we still have in-person meetings: to collaboration in real time, catch mistakes early.” She finds his eyes with hers. “All you did was save us time we would have spent working with faulty premises.”

In retrospect, it’s obvious: the option that would really annoy Michael Burnham, efficiency enthusiast, is wasting time they could have used productively.

“Of course,” there’s a quiet laugh rising up from his belly, “I should have known.” He shrugs. “I was just a little … nervous is all.”

“I understand,” her nod is slow, deliberate, “but you shouldn’t be.” She takes his hands in hers. “I’m proud of you.”

Warmth rushes through him, heats up his chest and his face. “You’re the smartest person I know.” He tilts his head, almost bashful for a moment. “Which is why correcting you felt so weird, I guess.”

Michael’s mouth curves into a soft smile. “Good thing I’m almost never wrong,” she says as she leans in to kiss him.

\--

Too many months later, Ash is finally standing in front of the low-gravity lab, eyes fixed on where Tian is about to initiate the first test series.

After the war with the Klingons, post-scarcity economics still isn’t what it used to be; his team had to learn that the hard way. Their test setup relies on several components that can’t be easily replicated, so that meant putting in supply requests for rare metals, inert gasses and a few large modules. If Nichy hadn’t kicked over a sampling tray after the third deferral, Ash would probably have done it himself. 

Now, however, that they’re about to set the whole thing in motion, he’s full of excitement.

Tian presses the button to boot up the system, and everyone holds their breath. It takes a little while for the chambers to reach operating temperature, but then they fill with gas and change color right before the indicator lights start coming on in quick succession.

It’s Stamets who breaks the silence.

“So that didn’t blow up,” he says and raises his glass. “Good job!”

Ash shakes his head and grins as he toasts the people around him.

“This is exciting,” Michael says, looking up at him with a bright smile. There’s no one in their immediate vicinity when she adds, “We should properly celebrate tonight.”

It’s a celebration, yes, but it’s also a work function, so Ash’s a little surprised.

“The science lab, huh?” he says, trying to imitate the way she quirks her eyebrow sometimes. “That’s what does it for you?”

“As if you even had to ask.” She shakes her head. “I have to get back to work.” Her hand finds his for a moment. “Congratulations.”

\--

Michael’s still reluctant to take her clothes off unless he’s bound, but Ash enjoys that, too, appreciates how it makes smaller things more meaningful, like the first time she takes her bra off beneath her shirt when they're making out on the couch, or when she starts undressing him down to his underwear herself before tying him up.

Soon she lets him look his fill before she straddles him, natural, radiant, the smoothness of her skin in beautiful contrast to the unassuming cotton of her bra and panties, muscles rippling with every movement, poses more confident each time.

Eventually, she adds a playful twirl or a slow caress, her own hands sliding along the beautiful curves of her body. Slipping inside her bra sometimes, occasionally gliding lower to rub between her legs as he watches, bound and turned on, until she bites back those needy little noises, until Ash can’t take it anymore, his blood pumping too loud, body pulled too tight against the ropes, growling, “Come here.”

Tonight she’s especially restless, wriggling on top of him, eating at his mouth, ass so close to his hard-on but not quite there, and it drives him insane, makes him squirm beneath her, until he pulls his mouth away to plead with her. “Michael, please. I need-“

She slides down just enough for the crown of his cock to press against the swell of her ass through their underwear, friction making him moan.

She straightens on top of him, more weight pushing down, posture confident and voice lazy when she says, “Since you asked so nicely,” and opens her bra with one hand, quickly discarding it on the floor.

He gasps, the urge to touch her so strong, irrepressible, making him strain against the bindings, his back arching off the mattress, his lower body held down by the delicious press of hers. “Fuck, Michael, you’re gorgeous,” he bites out.

She wets her lips. “So you like what you see?” she asks with an expression that makes clear she knows just how much, that she enjoys teasing him, wants to hear him say it.

“I do,” he says, trying to sound smug and failing. “I really, really do.”

“Good.” She swoops down, crushing their mouths together, her hands sliding across his shoulders, his neck, into his hair, tongue probing deep and deeper as her body undulates, making him even harder.

He groans, pushes his head forward and tries to take control of the kiss, delighted when she lets him. Advance and retreat, teasing her with quick licks and nibbles only to withdraw, then come back, fusing their mouths together, wet and hot and hungry.

By the time she pulls away for air, they’re both sweaty, panting. Michael shifts on top of him, scoots upwards, away from his lap, but he can’t be too disappointed when it gives him a great close-up view of her breasts, perfect small mounds with dusky nipples. 

His teeth glide across his lower lip, thick with blood and tasting of their kiss. Her mouth is parted, her gaze holding his, and she slants forward, slowly, to feed him the tip of her breast. His mouth closes and for a moment, all he can do is suck, feel the puckered texture between his lips, savor the sweet saltiness that’s different from the taste of her mouth, her neck, her wrists, and anywhere else he gets to kiss her. Her needy noises urge him on, the way she holds on to his head, fingers digging into his scalp like she can’t help herself, like what he does to her just feels too good, like her hunger for him needs a tangible outlet.

“Your mouth,” she moans, deep and throaty, “fuck, your mouth.”

She’s gotten confident, occasionally cocky, in expressing her pleasure and desire, and he loves it, but expletives are still much rarer from her than they are from him. It makes a weird sense of pride churn in his gut that he can get her riled up like this, make her forget her manners.

It makes him want to tease her, excite her in a different way. So he relaxes his mouth, replacing hard sucks with soft little licks all around the hard, fleshy pucker of her nipple. She moves in, drawn into the heat of his mouth, and he presses the flat of his tongue against her, then pulls back and swirls just the tip around her flesh, opening his mouth wide enough to make his teeth graze the skin just outside her areola and his nose skim against the soft curve of her breast. He can taste only her, smell only her, hear and feel the reverberations as she moans and praises him, and it all goes straight to his groin, a live wire connecting his greedy mouth and his cock throbbing inside his underwear.

She bears down onto his stomach, mindless and so wet that he can feel it through the fabric of her panties, feel the rub of her flesh where she slicks him up.

“I want to,” she pants, her hands pushing at his shoulders, putting enough space between them to find his gaze with dark, clouded eyes. “I want you to eat me out.”

It’s hotter than sin to hear her say it straight up like that, articulate what she wants, what she wants _from him_ , and his whole body responds in an emphatic yes. Her underwear is sodden, soaked in her taste and smell, and he can’t wait to suck on it, use his mouth and nose to make her come, make the flimsy barrier work to his advantage when he’s using just a little teeth.

She scrambles into her new position, not entirely graceful in her eagerness. And then she takes off her panties, and all air leaves his lungs. His brain almost short-circuits.

Michael on top of him, on her knees, gloriously and entirely naked. Her smell is so much stronger like this, the dark curls above him glistening with how much she wants him.

There’s a flash of concern on her face, chasing away the haze of arousal.

“Is this okay?” she asks with an almost timid smile.

Something in his chest swells, soft and tender.

He takes a moment to check in with himself, take stock. Everything about this situation is pleasure, his whole body is thrumming with it. Just one thing.

“A pillow might be nice,” he says and cracks his neck.

She laughs, clearly taken off guard, but game, too, and quickly stuffs two pillows beneath his head, making sure he’s comfortable, in perfect position, her breasts moving enticingly close as she does.

“All good?” That note of concern again, but of excitement, too, anticipation.

“Yeah. It’s … I love it.” He juts his chin out in a playful challenge. “Now come here.” His voice gets huskier with every word. “I wanna make you come.”

Her answering smile is warm yet unreadable. “Yes,” she says, moving in even closer. “Please,” she adds before she sinks down.

He starts slowly, butterfly kisses against her thighs, rubbing his cheek along her skin and her curls, then teasing along her cleft with his tongue, getting a feel for her, letting her tangy, earthy scent settle around him, stick to his skin.

The way they’re positioned, the pull of the rope every time he reaches out - it makes him realize how much he would use his hands if he could, how he wants to move her body just so, his instinct telling him to spread her open and get better access, or to tease her entrance with his fingers while he uses his mouth on her. It’s a challenge, but one he enjoys, one that makes everything feel fresh, different.

It’s another chance for him to be vocal, too, tell her what to do, tell her to hold herself open for his tongue, breathing requests and demands against her hot, wet flesh. They figure it out as they go, her movements against his face becoming more and more confident, self-possessed, filthy praise spilling from her mouth, making his whole body squirm, his underwear soaked through to a point where it almost feels cool, uncomfortable against his skin. 

He starts consciously using the ropes as leverage and an anchor point: to increase the tension in his body, help his mouth follow her hips when she pulls back, and soon she’s so close to her climax she’s almost whining with it, her thighs trembling around him, until all words cease, melt into indistinct sounds and she moves on top of him with complete abandon, driving down, using his tongue, his mouth, his nose, his beard, anything to get what she needs.

Eventually, he feels her hand grab along his arm until she finds the rope, finds his palm, and laces her fingers with his, then doing the same on the other side. Riding his face, using the point where their hands are clasped together as a fulcrum, her body writhing, breasts bouncing on top of him, an alluring, maddening shadow over his face, over his vision, _back and forth, back and forth_.

Her movements follow a deep rhythm, moans reverberating throughout her body, vibration seeping into him through her pussy, her palms, the quivering press of her thighs. When she grinds down again, is at the lowest point of her roll, Ash fastens his mouth around her clit, so swollen it peeks out from under its hood, and sucks, sucks, sucks. She’s whimpering, chanting approval even as she makes it hard for him, as her hips keep bucking. Like she can’t control herself, like she’s drunk on the pleasure she finds with him. He feels his dick throb, so hot against the wet fabric of his underwear, but he can’t concentrate on that, not when she’s moaning so prettily, when there’s so much delicious, earthy wetness slicking his face as her voice grows louder.

Her movements lose all rhythm, her hands contracting around his, blunt nails biting between his knuckles as she bears down even harder, throwing her whole weight into the motion. A strangled shout echoes through her body, through his entire room as she comes, followed by a succession of shameless cries, loud and primal, without his skin or a pillow to muffle them.

Finally, her grip loosens and she scoots back, gazing down at him with half-lidded eyes and an almost drowsy smile. Her index finger traces along the line of his beard, across his mouth, and he utters a helpless moan, feeling his hips buck up into nothing when she brings the finger to her own lips to suck it clean.

She turns around to look at his body, then slides down until she’s straddling his waist, tantalizingly close to where his hard-on is trapped inside his wet underwear.

“Damn,” she says, voice hoarse, used. “I didn’t even touch you down there, and yet you made such a mess.”

She dips her head down until they share breath, her hands on his shoulders making sure that he can’t surge up to kiss her. “That’s one of the hottest things about you,” she whispers, “that you get off on giving me pleasure.” He groans, helpless beneath her, and she seems to like it, rewarding him with a kiss.

Her mouth travels to his cheek and she murmurs, “When I ride your thigh and hold on to your throat, your pulse always speeds up the louder I am, the closer I get, the more I praise you. Even when you get nothing but the friction from your own clothes.”

He makes an affirmative noise, her words having what is no doubt their intended effect.

“When you use your hands on me,” she grabs his neck tight and licks along the edge of his beard, “it’s always about my pleasure first, about the best angle for me,” she breathes, “and that turns me on so much.”

A slow and filthy kiss follows, her hold loosening, but not letting go.

“The way you’ve learned to read me, how you always try to make sure I get there first, how you push through your own orgasm if you come before me because you need to get me there,” she says it almost dreamily, with an incongruous sweetness that sends a drumbeat of desire through his whole body. “I could come again just thinking about it.”

He feels the weight of her on top of his stomach shift, how her hips have found that undulating rhythm again, can feel the tackiness of his own skin. Damn, he can smell here, can smell nothing but her, her arousal coating his tongue and lips and face.

He moans, too loud, but he can’t care, feels his hips thrust up in a crude pattern.

She kisses him again, deep and seductive, her hips moving, her body sliding down, close, closer, but not quite where his cock is straining, hard and needy.

“Even now, you’re so close, and I haven’t even touched you,” her voice is dark and thick, should sound almost alien, but instead he feels like he’s known it forever, like he’s connected to it on a primal level.

“Yes,” he grinds out, “fuck yes.”

She brushes her lips against his, a caress and a tease. “I don’t know how, but I can feel it,” she murmurs, her tone indecent, her breasts rubbing against his chest, “it’s like this focused heat calling to where I’m burning up, too, where you got me so wet I can feel it spilling over.” She bites her lip, closes her eyes on a gratified moan. “Fuck, I can feel it running down my thighs.”

It’s those words that do it, that make him come inside his underwear without a single actual touch, just off of her voice and the little bit of stimulus from his damp briefs dragging against his skin.

He groans in a way that catches deep in his throat, his neck bending back, his whole body gathering and releasing tension as his orgasm shakes through him.

When he opens his eyes again, slow, spent, she looks down at him, indulgent, delighted.

“I thought I would have to ride you for that,” she says, her voice a dirty promise. “But this is even better.”

Her eyes are little more than slits, her voice shot through with something dark and sensual.

Her hips are still rolling in a languid rhythm and she unties the first of his bindings, bringing his freed hand up to her mouth, kissing his palm over and over. Eventually, she guides his hand down along her throat to her breast, pressing herself into his touch.

“Fuck, Michael.” The words escape without conscious intent. He wonders if he should say more, ask her if she’s sure, but his thoughts are sluggish and he’s overstimulated yet so turned on, no matter how completely he just spent himself.

She smiles like a promise, and the next roll of her hips is more forceful, deliberate, as she reaches over to untie the knot on the other side. She kisses his wrist this time, tongue licking along his pulse, her gaze finding his as she does. “Everything okay?” she asks. He isn’t entirely clear on what the words mean, if she says them in jest or to genuinely check in. All he can do is nod eagerly, mindlessly.

“Good,” she says and pushes herself down his body, straddling his hips, pressing against his spent cock through wet fabric. Another roll of her hips and she lowers herself down, kisses his mouth, lips moving along his cheek until her words breathe against the whorl of his ear. “You made such a mess,” she says and it gives him the strangest tingling sensation, embarrassment entwined with arousal, excited energy gathering in his groin where his dick is twitching feebly, in no state to get hard again. “I love it.”

She sucks just below his ear, makes him moan and strive up as she bears down, almost too much stimulation, sending a weird static through his system that’s laced with discomfort yet unspeakably hot.

“Is this still okay?” she whispers, her lips never leaving his skin.

“Yeah,” he moans, “yeah, please.” He doesn’t know where the _please_ comes from, what he’s even asking for, but it feels right.

He can feel her chuckle against his neck, and he knows it’s approval, knows that she gets off on his eagerness, knows it from the way her body moves, the way her breath speeds up, the way her fingers dig into his skin.

He massages her breast, gently, not too much pressure, thumb circling her nipple, keeping it hard and puckered. Michael gasps, finding his other hand with hers, braiding their fingers together, her body shifting until it’s blanketing him, until her thighs are pressed tight against his sides and her arm cradles his head in the crook of her neck, heat and sweat and electricity compounding between them, his skin conducting currents, a million little charges slithering along his nerve endings.

It’s almost too much to make sense of, being with her like this. Naked and sweaty, free to caress her everywhere, feel her smooth skin beneath his fingers, kiss and move and touch without restraint. Her breasts press into him, naked flesh against his chest and his hand, and she rocks into him, moaning deep and deeper, lighting him on fire, more turned on than he ever thought possible without an erection.

Finally, her hand that’s entwined with his reaches over their heads, everything about her tension, a live wire pulled too taut, pressing him into the mattress.

She moans a primal sound into his neck, shaking, trembling against him in a different kind of pleasure that seems to seep into him, narrow his focus until it spreads out again in a bone-deep tingling that soon washes away into deep satisfaction, a sense of serene lassistude.

Eventually, Michael moves and takes some of her weight off of him, her leg still slung between his, her arm folded on his chest, and gives him a sweet kiss, nothing more than a soft press of her lips.

All he can do in response is smile and take a deep breath, savoring the smell of their arousal all around them, permeating the air in his quarters.

She tucks her head under his chin and mumbles against his collarbone, “I just wanna sleep.” He feels the warm humidity of a yawn against his skin. “But we should probably clean up a little first.”

He nods in assent, but it takes them a few more minutes before their bones have solidified enough for them to get up and shower.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a long journey. When I started posting this - my first real WIP - I had about 18,000 words in a first draft and thought I'd be done posting in a month. Six months and almost 45,000 words later, I give you this.
> 
> Thank you for reading, for your kudos and comments. Your enthusiasm and encouragement mean a lot.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story and wish all of you the best of luck for the new year, the new decade and for every new day ♥

“Exciting news,” Jalloh announces a few months later. “We were able to move up the date of your project exchange.” 

Ash’s throat constricts with a swallow. He knew about the obligatory ten-week placement of course, but for classes on starships, it usually doesn’t happen until the end of the program. The date Jalloh gives, however, is less than two months away.

Something in his gut clenches, and it’s more than just excitement.

“You’re expected to coordinate with your new duty station, read up on your assignment and start prepping ASAP. We want you to hit the ground running once you’re there.”

Jalloh pulls up a star chart with markers dotted across the whole quadrant.

“Because of the spore drive, we were able to find you the most relevant placements regardless of distance.” Stamets holds up his hand and pulls his sleeve down to reveal the interface on the inside of his forearm. “You better appreciate that.” He turns towards Jalloh and stage-whispers, “Still can’t believe the captain authorized mycelial travel just to help out this lot,” but Ash knows it’s just for show.

Stamets has taken to teaching more than anyone would have thought - himself included, Ash suspects - and when he calls the whole class his _ducklings_ sometimes, it’s supposed to be an insult, but instead it sounds fond.

“Can we pick our own assignment?” Mark Bashir asks.

Stamets pulls a face. “No, Bashir. Your assignment is _assigned to you_ ,” he draws out the words for emphasis, “based on your skills and shortcomings, to help you round out your education.”

“Of course.” Mark nods his head, chastised.

“I’m transferring your intro packets right now,” Jalloh says and pushes a button on her console.

Everyone is eager to find out where they’re going, scrolling and swiping at their workstations.

“Hey, Tyler,” Nichy hollers from two seats over, “looks like you’re with me.” She grins.

“Looks like it,” he says and puts on a smile, giving her a nod before turning back to learn the details.

A Tellarite science station. Interesting. Ash hasn’t had much contact with Tellarites, but he recognizes a few names on the team roster from his project research. The package also notes the station’s proximity to a gravity well and its cutting-edge science lab, and the more he reads, the more excited he becomes. After the promising results of their low-gravity tests, Jalloh and Stamets obviously want them to keep pushing their spore-based experimentation. He’ll have to ask them to know for sure, but Ash is pretty certain they’ve assigned Neil and Tian to explore another piece of the puzzle.

If only the station weren’t so far away. He looks up their day-night cycle in the ship’s database. They’re ten hours behind Discovery, so by the time he’ll get off work, Michael will be long asleep.

It’s not ideal, but he can’t deny that this is a great opportunity, further proof of the potential Jalloh and Stamets see in his group’s research. Part of Ash can’t wait to tell Michael, show her the equipment specs and gravity readings and get her thoughts.

Yet there’s a voice niggling in the back of his mind: ten weeks. The last time they were apart for more than a few days was Bolac Minor, and that was only two weeks.

He shakes his head to get rid of his doubts. That was a long time ago.

Truth is, this had to happen at some point. As long as they’re both in Starfleet, there are no guarantees. Joann and Lena had also served together before she was assigned to Discovery.

Ash can’t fully shake the anxiety, his toes tapping nervously inside the cap of his shoe are proof of that, but he reminds himself that Owo has been on Discovery for several years now, and she and Lena are still going strong.

\--

A few days later, Michael tries to teach him 3D chess, but Ash isn’t really sold on the endeavor until he finds a sizable crack in one of the bishops and asks her about it.

“That was Spock,” she says, nonchalant. “He pushed the whole board off the table when he threw a fit.” Carefully, she takes a pawn from its position and shows him where a chunk is missing. “I’m surprised there wasn’t more damage.”

“Oh wow,” Ash nods, amused and weirdly impressed, “a game that gets your brother’s blood boiling. Sounds more fun than I thought.”

Michael places the pawn back on the board and lets Ash make his move. As she contemplates her counter, she tells the story. It’s more serious than he anticipated, but it does have a happy ending.

“When he visited a few months ago,” Michael concludes as she reaches for her rook, “he tried to offer me a replacement. But I,” she elegantly takes out Ash’s defense, “told him it was a memorial to his last, and hopefully final, temper tantrum.”

Ash has to laugh, even as he realizes she’s setting up a sure win. Her relationship with Spock still isn’t without conflict, but they talk regularly now, and it’s good for her, Ash can see that.

He valiantly tries to hold off her victory, but it only takes three more moves for her to beat him and declare, “Checkmate.”

They put the game away and sit down on her bed, winding up in one of Ash’s favorite positions: stretched out half on top of each other with his head in her lap, her hands running through his hair.

“I’m going to miss this,” he says, his hand finding hers without looking.

“Getting a scalp massage?” she teases.

“That, too.” Ash chuckles, but he can’t keep the earnestness from creeping into his voice when he adds, “Just, being with you, here.”

“You’re still excited about your placement, right?” She cups the back of his head in her hands and peers down at him.

“Oh yeah,” he nods, his head rubbing against the warmth of her skin and her clothes, the solidity of her body. “Just a little anxious to be away for so long.” He shrugs awkwardly. “From you, I mean.”

“Same here,” she says, her fingers resuming their soothing movements through his hair. “I’m obviously jealous you’ll get to try out all these new toys on the Tellarite station, but – baring a drastic change of plans – it’s far off-course from where Discovery will be.” Her nose crinkles in disapproval, and even upside-down, it looks adorable. “Our schedules will be completely out of sync.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I’ve thought about that, too.” It’s nice to know they’re on the same page, and it makes it easier to smile up at her. “I don’t like it.”

She laughs quietly. “Me neither.”

Her hands keep running through his hair, and Ash decides to bring up something else he’s been meaning to talk about.

“Maybe, after the exchange, we could both take shore leave?” It’s not a presumptuous request, he knows that, but there’s still a nervous churn in his gut as he makes it. “Go on a holiday together.”

Her smile is so warm and pure, like the afternoon sun shining down on him, and his heart might actually skip a beat. “I would like that,” she says, “I would like that a lot.” She rubs at the base of his neck with her fingertips, and he all but purrs. “Is there a specific place you had in mind?”

“Depends on how much time we have.”

“Well,” she inclines her head, “I have a lot of unused days off. I could do two or three weeks.”

 _Three weeks._ It’s a long time to spend together, just the two of them, but she says it easily, like it’s no big deal. Something inside his chest swells. “Maybe even four,” she adds more thoughtfully, like she’s going through her work schedule in her mind.

He looks up at her, skeptical. “Have you ever in your life taken a four-week vacation?”

“Do six months in prison count?” she asks dryly, one eyebrow arched in that way she has.

He only shoots her a look at that, and she quickly concedes the point. “I’ve changed, though. I’m much better at relaxing than I used to be.”

Ash reaches up to stroke the side of her cheek. “You’ve grown soft in your old age?”

“Something like that,” she says and looks down at him. “What would you like to do?”

He swallows. “I thought about going back to Earth, maybe.” Her smile stays on, but he can see in her eyes that she realizes what this means. “I haven’t been back since before I was assigned to the Yaeger.” It still feels strange to refer to that Ash Tyler as if they were one and the same person, but there are no words for the situation he’s in. In his mind, his thoughts, his memories, he is that Ash, too. No matter what else happened to him, what his body is made up of now on a molecular level.

Michael nods. “Are you sure?” she asks after a while.

He takes a deep breath. “Not really,” he admits. “I don’t think I’ll ever be sure.” It’s easier to say it when her touch soothes him, when they’re so close. “But I’m sure I want you there with me. Maybe we could swing by Lake Shasta.” He feels his face twitch into a half smile. “Check out the cabin I told you about. I could show you how to sail and catch some trout.”

“I would like that.” Her gaze is unguarded, focused only on him.

“And if it’s too much,” he shrugs, “we can always leave, go somewhere else. Earth is big, space is bigger. There are so many places to go.”

“That’s true.” She ducks her head. “I’d like to take you to Vulcan sometime. I know you don’t like the heat, but there’s some great hiking, and we can always get climate-controlled gear.” It sounds like she’s thought of this before, he notes with some satisfaction. “If we don’t get around to it this time,” she adds, “we can always go after your graduation.” She says it so casually, confidently. _Of course they’ll go on more vacations together. Of course she’ll show him where she grew up._

Ash grins up at her and slides his hands around her neck, tugging her down into a kiss. It’s a little awkward and messy to be kissing upside down like this, but they make up for it with enthusiasm. After their teeth click together for the third time, they finally maneuver into a more comfortable position, face to face, with Michael on top of him.

By the time she pulls back, expression relaxed, one hand resting against his jaw, Ash has mostly lost track of their conversation.

“I really look forward to Lake Shasta.” There’s a glimmer in her eyes. “Vulcan’s such an arid planet, I’ve never even learned how to swim.”

He bumps the side of his head against her shoulder. “There’s a stretch of shallow beach not far from the cabin. It’s where my mom taught me how to swim.” The memory of a long-ago summer’s day, of cool water and the smell of algae, is sudden, vivid, floods him with warmth and a little sadness. “I’m not a certified teacher like her, but I’ll try my best.”

“You could also teach me how to make a bowline,” Michael says quietly, an unexpected weight to the words.

“Sure,” he nods slowly, carefully. It’s the first time she mentions the memento he gave her so long ago. “I can do that.”

Her mouth curves and she crawls over him, body sliding against his, solid and familiar. The compartment in her headboard clicks open and he hears her rummaging around as he props himself up on his elbow to see better.

Eventually, she holds up a small object: his bowline. The token he’d left her with when they said goodbye on Qo'noS, when she affirmed his humanity even as he was about to go and live as a Klingon. All that time ago, when he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to see her again.

“I’d like to make one for you, too.” There’s something about the way she says it, something cautious, that gets to him.

“You kept it,” he says, and his voice comes out dry. It’s not a question, not really. It’s not even much of a surprise, but it still cuts to his core.

He didn’t actively think that she’d thrown it away. It’s just that he never allowed himself to think about it at all after his return.

During his time on Qo'noS, that had been different. Back then, alone in the Torchbearer’s quarters, he’d often sat on the ground in a corner at night, rope in hand, making bowline after bowline, knot after knot, trying to hold on to who he used to be, hold on to his mother’s son, to the woman who had taught him how to make a bowline, how to make a choice, how to live his life.

Holding on to the woman he had left behind. He remembers clinging to the idea that Michael had kept it as a talisman, imagining how large it would seem in her palm, how she’d think about him when she looked at it, when she touched it, when she stroked the rope.

“Of course I kept it.” She says it like there’s no other option.

Something inside him unfurls, a small little tangle he hadn’t even been aware of, and all Ash wants to do is pull her close, make their bodies fit just right. She comes willingly, eagerly, presses into him until he can feel her heartbeat against his chest, bury his face in her hair and breathe her in.

“I’ll show you how to make a bowline,” he says into the warmth of her, “I’ll show you everything you want to know.” He pulls back, his whole face breaking into a smile. “I’ll even hike the Vulcan desert with you. No climate-controlled gear necessary.”

She practically bubbles over with laughter. “No fear of dehydration?”

He feels his expression shift, grow tender, and locks eyes with her. “Not when I’m with you,” he says quietly.

The smile spreading on Michael’s face in response is joyful and open, and when she moves in to kiss him, slow and soft and perfect, Ash knows they feels exactly the same.

**Author's Note:**

> _Thanks to everyone who's commented so far. It's been an inspiration and great encouragement ♥_
> 
> I love chatting about my stories, so if you comment here or hit me up on tumblr ([drstrangewillseeyounow](http://drstrangewillseeyounow.tumblr.com/)), I'll be delighted.
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